Walkabout
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock awakens outside of London, with no memory of how he arrived there. [Hollowverse]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story follows "The Hollow Woman" and will eventually not make sense if you haven't read that.

* * *

Stars, spun like a spiral of illuminated insects, pulsing with the beat of his breath – inhalation: nearer, exhalation: further. Dark-bright sky unfamiliar in its clarity, cut with jagged outlines, fading to complete black with a soft surrender stealing over him–

_No_.

Swimming against comforting oblivion, each breath a desperate stab, scrambling for purchase on a sheer, slick surface. The stars had shifted – were shifting, back and forth, a slow volley that wasn't dizziness but that _caused_ dizziness and he gulped for air, head tipped back – _wrong way, should be forward _– to fight it, trying to land a fading, erratic focus on the solid, the known, the familiar.

Images drained away leaving nothing, shadow too dark for starlight to elucidate. Eyes were forced open but had never closed – this blackness wasn't his own. Shadows had to delineate but it was black on black on black and so much effort to find meaning.

_Don't. No._

Fingers crept like little spiders, seeking what eyes could not see, but this was wrong. Constricted. A cage of fleece and leather where there needn't be, robbed of the expected slide of fine cotton and warm skin. He ventured further, breath caught in his chest, half aware of the dreams that stole his nights had felt like this but had never _been_ like this.

Lungs demanded oxygen and he sucked in a sharp, frantic breath, holding it again. A growl, a low reverberating hum dripping with malice shot through him like ice, like adrenaline, screaming at the flight response to push him up, to get him out, to hide him, but he succeeded in nothing. Pain up his spine, in his right shoulder where it contacted the ground.

_Wrong._ A low tenor of wind, not the snarl of monsters. _He_ was wrong. Not hunted by men or hounds born of imagination and terror, but he wasn't the only wrong thing. The brush of the wind, a breeze stirring over exposed skin and tangled hair, burned off some of the haze.

Exhale again and _stop_._ Just breathe._ Focus – it was both easier and more difficult with confusion substituting itself for – itself. Other, different confusion. Eyes screwed shut, trying to concentrate. Pain – sudden, demanding, as if it had been there all along but had only now pounced like the hound, prowling the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike, and he set his jaw against the scream of nerves, tilting his head back again, forcing in oxygen through gritted teeth.

_John_, he thought, or said. It was a word – _the_ word, _the _name – that always came, whether for confirmation or clarification or reassurance or simply for attention.

No answer. John would answer, if John were there. If he _could_ answer. Fingers quested again, moving over the uneven surface, information muted and lost by the glove's protection. _Home_ – the textures and temperatures he expected warred with what he was receiving, details superimposed on one another, mixed up until they became one pattern and he had to stop, pressing an open palm against the floor until he could pick them apart, one by one.

Not floor, ground. Too uneven, organic, unyielding, like dirt, and jagged with pebbles. The bed – his bed, _their_ bed – was soft, inviting. Eyes drifted shut again, cold evaporating as sensation gave way to memory and he could feel it now, the clean warmth deepened by another body curled up against his. Lips twitched into a smile, head tilting to seek that familiar presence, searching for reassurance, contact.

Aching muscles protested, a jab of pain pulling him back with a groan that was barely contained by cold lips. Fumbling leather fingers worked their way over thick wool to expose skin, feeling nothing. Teeth managed to find fingertips, tugging until the glove came off and cold air made digits numb as they worked toward an answer. Mark on the neck, small, circular. Needle.

_No._

But there were the memories – so many of them, the bite of a rubber strap, teeth tugging one end to cut the bind more deeply into his bicep. Veins on the soft inner surface of the elbow jumping out, begging for the needle that slipped in so easily, his body singing when it hit his bloodstream with a jolt of ecstasy and he wanted to shake his head, to deny it all, because he'd made a promise to himself for John–

John with his healing, careful fingers cleaning wounds, making small, precise stitches, wrapping bandages securely but never too tightly. How could a man with such calloused hands be so nimble, so gentle? How could he fail, face the pre-determined end of sterile floors and neutral walls and arm restraints and faceless nurses and John's disappointment that was like a sledgehammer crushing his rib cage – all for one moment, one brief soaring moment now lost–

_Wrong!_

Not lost because it had never been. _This_ wasn't cocaine. _Not in the neck, you stupid man_. The wrong place, the wrong outcome.

_It's perfectly safe. I've used it on loads of my friends._

_Shut up. Go away._

Sherlock forced his eyes open. Reluctant responses. Sluggish. Inconsistent observations. Needle to the neck. Drugged. He needed to think. He needed data.

But his data were wrong. All the details he'd cultivated were useless. Home was gone.

No. Home was still there, he just wasn't in it. And if he wasn't home, he had to be somewhere. _Stupid thought_, he told himself. But true. He was somewhere – somewhere he didn't know.

He could know it.

Hampered every step of the way – sleep seemed so appealing, so simple to drop back down and wait until slumber had burned away the rest of the muddled mist and thinking _would_ be soaring, like cocaine but without any drugs, everything so clear, refracting light like perfect crystal–

The light was wrong. Stars splashed across the sky like glittering droplets of water, so bright and numerous it made him dizzy again and he closed his eyes, seeing notes and scales in the darkness, superimposed on the fading afterimage of the stars. A deep breath, two, steadied him until he was able to slit his eyes open, glaring at the sky, daring it to try again. Pupils dilated, adjusting to the feeble, incomplete light, the shadows overhead beginning to define themselves into a structure, only weakly perceptible in its outlines, but _real_.

Hemmed in by four walls, but it was too cold; he was inside and outside at the same time, the ruin of a small stone building incompletely encasing him. Above him a bit of roof missing, to one side, an open door, rotted wood just visible in the starlight, grass growing over the threshold, shivering in the cold night breeze.

The freed hand dropped from his neck, moving across the nearly frozen ground, gathering its own data as his eyes kept track of the lines and shadows above him. A smear of earth crushed between thumb and forefinger – slick hint of clay, the grasping scratch of tiny pebbles. Soil, dirt. No flooring between him and the ground – house ruined above and below. The floors at Baker Street came back, a memory beneath his skin, smooth and clean (mostly), hard except where rugs overlay varnished wood, the scratch of wool carpet on bare feet when he roused himself from bed–

_Stop it_, he told himself, sucking in another deep breath. Air pure and crisp, none of the smells associated with London, with _home._ Home meant petrol exhaust and pavement and damp air and John. Above all else _John._ A mix of familiar scents: soap, shaving foam, sweat, food, sleep, sex.

No smell of John now. No smell of anything. The air was too clean, as if it couldn't hold any scent.

Or sound. The wind was distant, forlorn. Touching him but only glancing, as if he were too small – too insignificant – to be bothered with. The sound of _space_ sucking out all the other sounds, robbing him of _London_ with its traffic and cutting sirens, with its shouts of laughter and anger, the babble of voices that drown into one, the distant, overhead drone of aeroplanes that linked the rest of the world to _home._

Not home. This had been someone's once. Not now. Never his. Home was out there, still standing, an empty house void of occupants, expectant of a return that couldn't happen, not from here, not without data.

Except for John. Unless John was there.

Cold sweat sprung up on his skin, torn away by the breeze, making him shudder. _John_. Sherlock caught his breath again, listening hard. No other breathing as a counterpoint to his. No sound by the wind rippling through unseen grasses, disturbing the small thatch near the absent door.

He needed to find John. He had been– he had been with John, just a moment ago, so close he could touch it if he reached out, but when he tried to, an aching shoulder protested and he was met with nothing more than cold night air.

Echoes of shouts against solid walls, the reverberation through his muscles as he ran, shod feet pounding on hard pavement. Voices behind him – John, Lestrade.

He should be in the city. He _had_ been in the city, giving chase, so close and then–

Nothing.

There was a gap there; he could sidle around it, nearly see it, begin to define its fuzzy boundaries but when he reached for the memories that should have lain inside, he found nothing at all. No hints, no sounds, no sensation, no pain, no surprise. Just nothing. There was only blackness between when he'd been running, adrenaline surging – _so close_ – and this cold night with too many stars and nothing familiar about it.

_Up_, he told himself. _Get up._ More reluctance, body shirking from dizziness and the possibility of nausea, but nothing could be accomplished by lying here. A searching hand found the wall, bared fingertips brushing bare stone, smoothing over uneven, jagged edges. The other hand – still gloved – and feet pushed him toward the wall, using it as leverage to get into a sitting position. Slumped more than anything, in the corner, head tipping back, almost lazily, of its own accord.

Less vulnerable this way, but unprepared. He needed to get _up_. All the way. Legs drew to his chest, lectures from John about checking for injuries made themselves known. Unwillingly, Sherlock pulled off his other glove, shoving them both into deep coat pockets. He needed data, and he needed resources. Everything he could find or keep.

Fingertips gave him new data, skirting over the mark on his neck, skimming over limbs, pressing into joints. Muscle pain seemed to be the worst of it – no warning flares along bones, no sticky gashes from cuts. A tender spot on the back of his head – struck most likely. Before the needle.

_Good_, he told himself. John would be pleased. It was suddenly immensely important, a conviction like a stubborn belief that wouldn't be shaken. A _need_, not just a desire. He had done this one thing, and John would be pleased. He had valuable data that John had taught him to collect.

Fingers curled, cold, and Sherlock fumbled his gloves back on, sucking in a deep breath against inexplicable – _that's a lie, it's the drugs, it's not just the drugs _– emotion that made him want to curl up, give up. The sound of the wind scouring an open space mocked him. He was alone. He'd been with John, and now he was alone. He had been alone for nine months, but he'd known where John was, back at Baker Street, waiting without knowing he was waiting and _that's where he is now_, Sherlock told himself firmly. He had to believe something. Without the right data, he might as well believe a lie.

Hands and arms were pressed into the stone, feet pushing against the unyielding ground to leverage himself to standing. Sherlock dropped his head forward, breathing deeply, waiting for the momentary dizziness to fade. Weakness clung to him. Not just the drugs – dehydration and hunger. They could wait. They had to.

They always had before.

The wall was an ally, supporting him, giving him the time he needed. Adjustment was slow, seconds crawling by as he shifted himself in tiny increments, straightening long legs, steadying himself to see if they'd take his weight. Shaky muscles, tired from too much use followed by a sudden cessation.

But he was upright. _One step at a time_, he told himself with a humourless quirk of the lips. The remains of the house provided some shelter. A defensible position – maybe. Hands slipped into pockets, searching for more advantage, stung by the lack of familiar rectangular weights. No phone. No wallet. Fingers curled around his hand lens.

It was something, at least. It wouldn't work here, in this too-bright starlight that was still somehow too dark, but it would work with the sun. A fire for warmth – and for contact.

_Mycroft_. Of course. Mycroft. His brother would be looking at the first suggestion of a mishap. Probably already was. He could wait. Stay in one spot. Make it visible. The morning would bring more information, more possibilities and–

The faint sound of footsteps. His heart shuddered, superimposing the soft footfalls of an enormous, stalking hound – but these weren't as gracefully sly. Artificial. Shod.

Someone else, just outside.

Steps hesitant and uneven. Not moving toward him – but he wasn't alone, in this ruined house. Drugged. Vulnerable. Someone had brought him here. Robbed him of the memories of how. Never bothered with the why.

He listened for a familiar pattern but couldn't find it. Not John. Disappointment ignored, he exhaled slowly, moving toward the door, back against the wall, concentrating. Every scrape of rock through his coat and gloves accentuated the ache in his muscles, the pounding of his pulse that his attacker sure must be able to hear but obviously could not. He had to be careful – the disadvantages were too many, but he wouldn't wait to be taken unawares. Not again.

The footsteps came closer, oh so slowly, nearly drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. but when he saw the length of a shadow, he drained resources he didn't have, and leapt.

They went down hard, Sherlock's hand over the other's mouth, a hard puff of air against his palm as the body underneath him hit the ground and took his weight, struggling against him despite the shock. He pinned the frantic arms with his knees, pinching the nose to restrict breathing – a warning, a threat. His captive tried to knee him; Sherlock leaned forward, dodging the clumsy attempt at a blow, pressing harder with his hand.

"Shut up!" he hissed and the body beneath his tensed then went slack, eyes widening, picking up the starlight as a shocked glimmer. He heard a word beneath his hand, muffled and nearly indistinct but just recognizable as his name. Sherlock froze, trying to make out the features of the face – it wasn't John, the height was wrong, it wasn't his smell or the way he felt – but he was kneeling too close to see, casting dark shadows.

Sherlock withdrew somewhat, trying for more light, easing up with his hand when his captive lay still, giving a slight nod.

"Bloody hell," the other man wheezed. "Sherlock?"

"_Lestrade?_"


	2. Chapter 2

_Up._

Limbs that contained no strength were forced into action, pushing him up and away from the recumbent DI. Staggering over unfamiliar terrain, arms out and fingers splayed as though they might unwittingly contact something – or break the eventual fall.

"John!" The word, hissed, lost to the wind. Eyes searching desperately – the starlit darkness illuminated too little, casting shadows of an unfamiliar landscape. The city, give him the city, and he would understand, but not here in this place of incessant wind and open spaces and no John.

"John!" _Again, keep trying_. Conclusions had to be drawn logically – not through the knot of desperate hope. They'd all three been together, and Lestrade was here.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell–" Lestrade's question cut off by John's repeated name, the tremor in his voice reflected in his legs; gritted teeth kept him upright, substituting sheer will for real stamina.

Soil scraping against shoes as the DI scrambled to uncoordinated legs – not equally so, how much had they each been given? Irrelevant. The only priority was John. He tried again, voice louder now, but still too low – the name needed to be shouted but the darkness prohibited that, reducing it to a hissing whisper, a pathetic attempt to resolve the problem.

John's name was echoed, Lestrade's voice joining Sherlock's. Drug-hampered steps moving away from him, rough circle, scouring barren, grassy ground.

"He's not in the house," Sherlock managed when Lestrade's path led him there. Slurred words. Starlight swam in front of him, steadied by a deep, harsh breath. No time for this. Lestrade was here, so John must be too.

"We need to be," Lestrade said.

"We need to find John." Everything else paled in comparison, flowing away like the last evaporating reserves of strength. He kept going, voice hoarser as John's name vanished into the darkness. Again and again, even when the DI's staggering weight was the only thing keeping him up. Keeping them both up.

"We'll find him in the morning."

Shake of the head, stumbling when Lestrade tried to move them, fighting even though he couldn't. He called John's name again, answered only by the empty wind.

"Sherlock–"

"'s here. We have t'find–"

"We need to get inside–"

"No–"

A scuffle that was little more than a tug had them both down, collapsing in a heap of cold limbs against colder ground, breathing hard, stars swimming again, a shimmering panorama that provoked nausea, making him gag, stomach trying to empty contents that weren't there. Lestrade, gasping, slumped against him, dead weight that wasn't dead, unwelcome and unfamiliar warmth that was barely warm.

"He'll find the house," Lestrade said. Words blurred, like the stars, until eyes closed, mercifully blocking out the sight. "He's got training."

John would be drugged but so were they and there was no more strength to resist when an arm was slung across uncharacteristically weakened shoulders, muscles shuddering in desperate protest, stumbling, half crawling, the shelter of the house delineated only by the deeper shadows, the dampened cut of the wind.

"No." Lestrade again, an arm around Sherlock's chest now when the door became the target but from the other direction. So close, so unreachably far, body aching for sleep, mind aching for action. Years of discipline meant nothing, draining away, pulling consciousness along with it until he could no longer fight, something catching in his chest – pain, denial, _John_ – but there was no choice now, only the cold and the dark that stole in and accepted his surrender without him ever wanting to give it.

* * *

Morning brought conflicting sensations – sunlight too bright, air too cold, both contradicting the heat of a body curled up around his. For a moment, he thought to ignore the problematic input – aching limbs were scarcely a novelty, and unaccustomed firmness beneath him meant little compared to the now familiar comfort of an arm around his waist and breath against the back of his neck.

Small complaints nudged at his mind. Why was he in his coat? Why weren't they in bed? Why did John feel so much taller?

The sudden flash of memory made Sherlock's eyes snap open; sitting up dislodged Lestrade, who awoke with a groan, managing to disentangle himself before being fully conscious. Displeasure on the DI's face and a palm covering his eyes masked the clamour of Sherlock's heart. Unwanted – unnecessary – adrenaline reaction. Illogical discomfort. A shudder past through him before a deep breath slowed his heart rate.

"Thought it would be better than freezing to death," Lestrade muttered, half pushing himself to sitting. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Hardly," Sherlock replied dryly, hauling himself to his feet, hiding the shakiness of his legs, the unsteadiness in his mind by brushing the dirt from his coat. A useless action here, surrounded as they were by dirt and wind and unreasonably bright sunshine.

Morning – he still had his watch, he realized. Just gone seven. The drugs, now out of his system, left hunger and thirst far more dominant than they needed to be. He ignored them – a long practiced habit – and strode outside, trying not to stagger.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade murmured behind him, stopped in the doorway, voice hollow with shock.

No time – or need – for an appreciation of the rolling hills with their craggy outcrops delineating the truncated horizons in all directions, swept with windblown grass, dipping into valleys to follow incised channels in which there would be water – an important consideration but not the _most_ important one.

"How the hell did we get here?" Lestrade demanded.

"Helicopter," Sherlock replied.

"You remember?"

"Safe bet. No tire tracks, no airfield. _John!_" The explanation would have to suffice – an elementary deduction in any case. Mercifully, Lestrade chose not to pursue further questioning, his voice joining Sherlock's, repeating John's name. Each empty pause in which the wind was the only reply tightened something in his lungs, forcing him to inhale more deeply each time he called John's name – a shout now, tone unrestricted by darkness.

The ruined house occupied a perch at the top of a low hill; the view beneath them was uninterrupted by artificial colours, by any suggestion of an unconscious or sleeping body. Slow, concentric downward passes were enough to make him dizzy, small outcrops or boulders abandoned by ancient glaciers were enough to let him catch his breath as he inspected them fruitlessly.

"He's not here," Lestrade said, breathless, meeting up with him near the bottom of the hill. Dark circles beneath his eyes, pale skin, red mark on his neck vivid but fading.

"He must be. We are."

"He could be anywhere."

"_No._" The forcefulness made Lestrade start; the anger that came with it made Sherlock dizzy. _Ignore it, not important_. "We were brought here. It stands to reason–"

"What reason, Sherlock?" the DI spat. "We were drugged and dropped in the middle of northern Wales–"

"How do you know where we are?"

A stunned moment at the accusation, then a shake of the head.

"I've been here. Not right here, obviously–"

"Obviously," Sherlock echoed, voice dry like the lips he had to lick against the incessant wind.

"But I've been hiking with the kids. I recognize it. The general landscape I mean. Let me sit."

Rocks bore his weight as Sherlock sank down gratefully beside the DI, bowing his head between shaking legs to assuage the dizziness.

"Here." Something was pushed into his hands, familiar crinkle and snap of plastic and foil. A worn bottle of water, nearly full, and a bland breakfast bar.

"No," he said, pushing them back.

"You need to eat. We both do."

"I'm fine."

"You're not bloody fine! We were drugged, Sherlock, and helicoptered – apparently – to the middle of nowhere, Wales, in the middle of the night, and we were both out long enough for that to happen!"

"I don't eat when I'm working," he murmured, ignoring the ever-present dizziness.

_It'll help, Sherlock._ John's voice, so close and real that his head snapped up, narrowed grey eyes scanning the offensively empty landscape.

"Bollocks. I don't care. Eat it or I'll make you."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Don't tempt me."

"We may need it. For later."

"We need it _now_. We're both on the verge of passing out. We can refill from the stream, and I have a couple of protein bars, too. Some of us _do_ eat when we're working."

Normally nimble and agile fingers shook – against his will – as the foil was peeled away from the processed bar. It tasted of nothing but the water chased it down, rekindling some cinder of strength. Aware of what John's cautions would be, Sherlock ate and drank slowly. Limited and dwindling rations would serve for nothing if he made himself sick. He was loath to admit that it helped, so he didn't, casting a glance over his shoulder at the remains of the stone house atop the hill.

"We can follow the valleys," Lestrade said. "If we keep moving north, we'll either run into hikers or hit the coast – which means we'll find a road first."

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"If we're lucky, we're looking at only a couple of days of walking – hopefully."

"We're not going anywhere."

"And what do you propose we do?" Lestrade demanded.

"Stay here. Obviously. A visible position with shelter. A fire will make us even more visible," he pulled his magnifying glass out as proof that one could be made, "which will help with aerial searches."

"No one's looking for us, Sherlock."

"Don't be absurd; at the first hint of a problem, Mycroft will divert every resource he can–"

"To northern Wales? Not to look for us in London? How would he know? Why would he even think we'd been dumped here?"

The question caught him up short, his mind's voice berating him in the wind-blown silence. _Stupid,_ he told himself. It wasn't just the drugs – or the after effects. Complacency. He'd fought so hard against it for so long. Had done without his brother's assurances for nine months, but stepping back into his life brought back old habits. The idea chafed, but there it was: he was used to Mycroft's resources, and to his protection.

"John," he said, shaking his head. "It's an obvious place to go – no other buildings in the vicinity, and a fire will assure him of civilization."

"And what if he's not here?" Lestrade pressed.

"He was with us in London."

"He might still be in London for all we know. No phones to track us – and we probably wouldn't get reception here even if we had them. No one bloody knows where we are, Sherlock! We don't know where John is! He could be– anywhere!"

_Don't think it,_ Sherlock warned himself, clamping down on the word, so hard in its finality. _You came back_, he reminded himself. A dry, mirthless smile tugged at the corners of his lips. So had Irene Adler. Twice.

Those had all been planned. Unless John had planned this– _ridiculous_. But why separate them? To what end? An unfamiliar pain lanced down his arms and he was staring at his hands before he realized what it was. An ache born of absence. He swallowed the distaste, aware that he couldn't muster quite as much of it as he should have. Loneliness wasn't a physical sensation, so it could only be another lingering symptom of the drug.

The lie sounded hollow, even in the privacy of his own mind.

"We have almost no food," Lestrade continued. "And water only if we follow the stream. If we stay here, we'll have nothing but water after one day."

"We'll suffer the same fate if we leave."

"But we'll be one day closer to civilization."

_Civilization_. The word spoke of the hum of traffic, the smell of petrol and fine concrete dust, the blur of lights caught out of the corner of his eye as they flew past his cab, of the bustle and flow of pedestrians, actors on the city's stage, of the warmth and comfortable laughter of _home_. For a moment, too fleeting yet too protracted, he could feel the shift of the stairs beneath his feet, hear the crackle of the fire behind the grate, see the genuine, welcoming smile as John greeted him–

It shattered, leaving him almost breathless, taking another sip of water to cover the shock.

"We have to go," Lestrade said.

"One hour," Sherlock replied.

"We should rest," the DI agreed.

"Not to rest," Sherlock contradicted, screwing the cap onto the water bottle. One hour. If John were looking for them, he'd spot the house and be heading for it. They would be able to see him coming. One hour. He could search, more carefully this time, bolstered by the meagre meal.

His body was a tool, slave to his mind. Not the other way around. Everything else could wait until they returned to London. This was no different than any of the times that had come before.

The work _mattered_. John _mattered._

"One hour," Lestrade agreed, hint of reluctance ignored as Sherlock pushed himself to standing.

"Rest if you need to," he said.

"No. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly. If he's here, let's bloody well find him."


	3. Chapter 3

It was appalling how quickly routine could become established.

Not the one he'd developed in the five weeks since he'd returned to Baker Street. The routine Sherlock had been expecting – anticipating, really – had been disrupted by the reason for his return, by the initial uncertainty regarding living arrangements, by the shift in his relationship with John.

It was the routine that centred around the ruined stone house on its isolated hill that alarmed him. An hour of methodical searching, moving back and forth across the grid Lestrade had devised for them, had yielded nothing. John's name, shouted into the vast open space over and over, had gone unanswered.

All the evidence clearly indicated that John wasn't there. No matter that the three of them had been together a mere twelve hours earlier, they were now separated. The house in which he and Lestrade had been unceremoniously abandoned had not been John's drop point – provided John had been taken at all.

Yet Sherlock was loath to leave. His mind subverted the logical conclusion that there was nothing – no _one_ – here to find with an irrational insistence that if they stayed long enough, John would turn up. There was absolutely no evidence on which to base that conclusion, but ignoring it as he scrawled a hasty note to be tucked into the cairn Lestrade was building drew a faint nausea, a tightening of his stomach and lungs that was both preposterous and unproductive.

John could be anywhere, and anywhere included Baker Street, or even under Mycroft's protection in London, raising a fuss about Sherlock and Lestrade.

They were the detectives, after all. Both of them highly trained in investigative techniques. John had developed considerable skill, but had never been taught or required to implement it in a consistent fashion. He may not have been considered a threat.

That felt untrue, and the sensation necessitated he swallow a growl, if only to avoid Lestrade enquiring as to the problem. Deductions couldn't be based on _feelings_.

He had no facts, other than the inescapable one: John was not with them.

_Heading north, following the passes. SH. GL._

It would have to do. Anyone who may be looking for them – who thought to turn their investigation to an isolated, unpopulated area of northern Wales – would recognize the initials. Anyone unrelated to the investigation would not.

John would know precisely what to do. His army training had better prepared him for this sort of circumstance. There was a moment of fleeting and dry mirth; having John here would increase their chances of survival.

_Maybe that's why_, Sherlock thought, then gave his head a sharp shake as he folded the note and secured it between two small, flat stones. With no means to tie it, they would have to trust it to stay there, and that whomever stumbled upon the cairn would get the hint from the arrow of stones pointing directly at it.

Relying on the intelligence of others had always been a risky proposition. With no other choice presenting itself – aside from staying and decreasing the probability of being recovered – Sherlock hoped like hell that if someone did find the cairn, it was someone clever.

"Ready?" the DI asked as Sherlock secured the stone sandwich in the centre of the cairn's apex.

_To spend two days walking through northern Wales in the hopes of encountering hikers or farmers? No_, he thought, but gave a curt nod.

"Yes."

"Let's get this the hell over with," Lestrade said.

* * *

"Tell me what you remember."

"What?"

Sherlock turned his eyes toward the sharp blue sky, resisting the urge to close them with a sigh if only because it meant the possibility of tripping on this offensively uneven terrain.

_Save me from fools and newly reinstated DIs_, he thought, shooting a scowl at Lestrade, who only raised his eyebrows in return, managing to keep his footing despite looking over his shoulder.

"From last night," he sighed. "Focussing on before you woke up here, please."

"Yeah, obviously," Lestrade replied with a smirk.

"I can't rely on you to make the proper connections," Sherlock snapped. The DI rolled his eyes, turning back to watch his path.

"We were chasing that suspect," Lestrade said. "Down that alley. Little before eight, wasn't it?"

"That's it?" Sherlock demanded.

"Till I woke up here, yeah," the DI said with a shrug. The disgusted noise gusting from Sherlock's lips made Lestrade glance back again.

"What about it?" he asked.

"_Think!_" Sherlock admonished. "Sights, sounds, smells! Anything out of the ordinary!"

"Aside from chasing down a potential murder suspect, you mean? Never mind – that _is_ ordinary for us." He paused, silence wrapping around them as surely as the breeze, then gave his head a shake. "It was dark, so the lamps were lit, and there was a light over one of the doorways in the alley. Just enough to see him vanish around a corner – couple of bins near the door, one of them knocked over where he ran into it. Young guy, in his mid to late twenties, I'd say. Athletic. Five-ten, maybe five-eleven. Dark hoodie, dark jeans, dark shoes. The alley smelled of rubbish – most strongly coffee grounds, so the light was probably the back of a café. Not much traffic on that street – maybe a bit odd for that hour, but it could be that area." Another pause, hands bundled into pockets in defence against the cold air. "You?"

_Details_. Not much traffic, no – but common for that area, particularly at that time of day. Their entry into the alley coincided with a change in the nearby traffic light, which reduced the number of vehicles passing them by at that moment. Light from the streetlamps bled into the alleyway, illuminating the first metre or so, but weakly. Light from the rear door of the coffee shop casting a circular yellow-white glow around the immediate perimeter of the doorway. Enough to catch the colours of the suspect's clothing. Shadows from his hood too deep to decipher eye or hair colour even when he'd glanced back; outline of his head under the hood suggested a shorter hair style. Light skinned – chin and neck just visible. Hands: gloved – clever. No fingerprints here, just as with the crime scene.

Lestrade in the lead, John half a step behind Sherlock. Three sets of footfalls following another, hard asphalt slapping beneath soles, remnants of small puddles from the rainstorm the night before, threatening to make the ground slippery, spraying cuffs and fine leather with each connecting step.

Harsh breathing – his own, John's. Still becoming re-accustomed to the chase. Lestrade's lead was practical and practiced – he was the DI (three weeks now; that had the smell of Mycroft all over it) and had kept up the same habits even as a sergeant.

Smells – coffee grounds the most predominant, mixed with the faintly musty smell of water on road surface and brick, petrol fumes a distant memory from the nearby road. Nicotine lingering in the air near the coffee shop door; someone had just taken his or her break – her, more likely, given the faint smudge of lipstick on the ground out butt littering the stoop.

Blind corner, one of them might have gone round the other way, intercepted from the street, but it was a maze back here, no telling which way the suspect would go. Darkness around that corner, the sound of retreating footsteps, a shout from John to stop, unheeded (of course). Eyes closed briefly, using the fragmentary moment to try and adjust to the impending darkness and–

"Christmas music?" Lestrade asked.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, stopping abruptly to avoid walking into Lestrade's suddenly stationary form.

"You just said 'and Christmas music'."

Eyes narrowed to glare at the DI, but there was nothing in the confused expression suggesting Lestrade was having a go at him. Sherlock backtracked mentally and ran up against it again.

Christmas music played on a violin.

_His _violin.

A sigh and roll of his eyes as he jammed his hands into his own pockets, still mildly surprised – put off – by the lack of wallet and phone. No connection to the outside world, to assistance or rescue.

Or to John.

"The last thing I remember is rounding the corner," he said, giving the DI a sharp nod, indicating that they needed to continue walking. Stopping and starting would get them nowhere quickly; the more ground they covered during daylight hours, the better their odds were of running into someone. "The memory of music is obviously erroneous."

"What, you're telling me that _your_ mind plays tricks on you?"

"When I've been drugged against my will," Sherlock replied dryly. "Or perhaps you've forgotten Grimpen altogether?"

"As opposed to being drugged by your will," Lestrade said smartly, causing Sherlock to scowl at his back. He scarcely needed a reminder that he had deliberately surrendered his mind to inconsistency and fantasy. "You don't remember much more than me though – right, don't start about your observational skills," he added when Sherlock drew a breath to clarify the statement. "You know what I mean."

Silence lapsed back in, an encroaching tide as Sherlock held his tongue against a retort. Lestrade was right. For the moment. The back of his head, where he'd been struck, ached dully in response to the realization. They must have got further than just around the alley corner; it was unlikely they'd remember the moments immediately before the attack, and John might have had time to respond if he'd heard Sherlock and Lestrade go down before him.

Which could explain why he wasn't there.

Sherlock caged that thought immediately, denying the consideration it warranted. Speculation would lead nowhere useful, and he wasn't about to give life to the more desperate possibilities.

The facts were these: he was in northern Wales, with Lestrade, in March. Low hiking season. Unpredictable late winter weather. No means of communicating or being tracked. Very little food. Lost.

With each step, the last fact was becoming history – provided nothing else befell them. _ Useless to speculate_, he reminded himself. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder, past Sherlock. The detective didn't need to turn back to see what was no longer there. The stone house had vanished behind the slope of another hill, again as abandoned as it had been a mere day before, save for the note they'd left behind.

Without comment, the DI turned back to his path, picking his way carefully across the rugged terrain. Necessary details flowed to Sherlock's feet via his eyes, body switching to autopilot as he let his mind return to the case, to the details of the crime and of the alley, searching for anything that might signify how they came to be here, and why.

The gap was there again, as dark and vast as it had been the night before, an open space in which there was nothing. Void. Blankness.

He'd experienced the same thing following the fall – his jump – but had expected to. On some level. Better _not_ to have complete memories that anyway; bad enough remembering the last desperate phone call to John, having only an inkling of what was to come, for both of them.

But there were patchy sensations. The knot in his stomach. The rush of wind and blood in his ears. The smooth feel of cotton against his cheek when he'd awoken. Molly's fingers on his forehead, holding steady as a penlight made each eye jerk, seeking escape.

This time, there was just – nothing.

And the strains of his violin.

_Blast!_ Sherlock thought, features pinching into a scowl. An instinct to banish it was suppressed; he shifted his attention deliberately toward the unsolicited recollection, turning it over in his mind, pressing it for understanding.

Christmas music. Strains from his violin. Memory of movement flowed through his muscles, from shoulder to fingertips. Snowflakes cast in the subdued brightness of lights outlining a window. Smells of pine, tea, and perfume.

_Disappointing_. A emotional reaction. So pedestrian. So unnecessary. Unconsciously seeking safety when none existed. His last Christmas at Baker Street. John and Mrs. Hudson. An interruption of what _was _with what _had been_. An attempt to subvert himself.

Neither John nor Mrs. Hudson were here. That was a fact. Inescapable as the wind that surrounded them, its low and mournful pitch reinforcing isolation.

Mrs. Hudson was gone. John was not. Not present, but not gone. The distinction was crucial. Baker Street awaited Sherlock's return, as it had little over a month ago. That knowledge would not change the facts as they were now: no John, no phones, no idea why they were here.

The music was superfluous. Seeking safety in memory when no other was immediately available. Resolved, Sherlock shelved the analysis in a distant corner of his mind and shut the door on it.

The case had to be the reason they were here; the answers he needed would be found in its details, in an examination of the facts, not in emotion and unnecessary distraction.

"Do you think it was her then? Morstan?" Slight hesitation on the name, Lestrade's acknowledgement that it was _not_ her name, but that they had no other by which to call her.

"No." Surprise evident in the DI's posture, in the way he glanced over his shoulder. He'd expected the opposite answer, and in some way, it would have made sense. A simple and obvious solution to the _who_.

"This is too–" A moment's uncharacteristic struggle for the right word let the one he hadn't intended slip past his lips. "Moriarty. This is a _game_."

"I'd think Morstan is an expert at games," Lestrade commented, picking his way more slowly over the uneven ground as they crested the base of a low hill, keeping the stream in sight on their left.

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock replied. "But she doesn't play them. Not her style."

"What do you call that whole thing with Harry Watson then?" the DI snorted.

_Waiting_, Sherlock thought. "A calculated risk. She wasn't doing it for fun; she was doing it for information. _Everything_ she's done has been deliberate and planned – yes, even the faked kidnapping," he added when the DI drew a breath to interrupt. "It gave her time to extricate herself while we were chasing down false leads."

"Well it can't be Moriarty," Lestrade snapped. "You don't recover from swallowing a bullet like that. And she _was_ his boss, according to you."

"She let him die because he was becoming unpredictable. By her own admission."

"Which she admitted when she rang you to taunt you!"

"That wasn't a taunt," Sherlock contradicted. "It was just as calculated as the rest."

"Yeah right," Lestrade muttered. "Give you just enough information so you'd back off." He'd read the transcript of the conversation, just as everyone else who had been involved in the case – everyone but Harry. It had only been John's reaction that had made Sherlock uneasy. No need to defend himself to anyone else.

"Didn't really work, did it?"

"No," Sherlock murmured, keeping to himself the observation that perhaps he was not pursuing it with the same zeal he may have had Mary given him nothing. It appalled him – privately – to realize that, and it was discomfiting to be driven by guilt and concern rather than the simple elation of the challenge.

"So there you go."

"If Mary Morstan wanted us out of the way or dead, we would be," Sherlock sighed. "She had unrestricted access to John for seven months, and knew about my return long before most people did. This," he swept his right hand in a wide arc, trying to encompass the landscape and the ridiculousness of the situation, "is not her style. Why do this? Why bother?"

"We must have been too close to something," Lestrade replied.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "But not to her. There are so many easier ways to remove us from consideration that don't involve this. She's a professional, Lestrade. Yes, fine, so were Moriarty and Moran, but they were both psychopaths. Easily bored. She doesn't play _games_. She does business. This– this is just… contrived."

"Glad you think so," the DI snorted. "Makes the whole situation so much better, doesn't it?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, not deigning to answer. "So it's not Mary Morstan because it's too much of a game, and it's not Moriarty because he blew his own brains out. Who does that leave us with?"

"Someone new," Sherlock replied.


	4. Chapter 4

"Fire's going to be a problem."

With an inward sigh, Sherlock returned his attention to the present, pausing his reanalysis of the victim and her known history.

"Yes," he agreed, wondering if it would be enough to stop Lestrade speaking about it. What plant life there was consisted mostly of grasses – and enough thistle that he'd snagged his coat several times – which meant they were not likely to acquire the necessary fuel to feed a fire throughout the night.

Not to mention the fact that they would have to stop early enough to use the sun. It was mid-afternoon now; judging by their latitude and the time of year, they had a few more hours of decent daylight – provided the weather didn't change.

In that respect, they had been lucky. So far.

If anything about the situation could be considered lucky.

"We did well enough last night," Sherlock pointed out, pursing his lips in displeasure as Lestrade signalled for them to stop to refill their meagre supply of water.

"In that we didn't freeze to death, yeah," the DI replied as they picked their careful way to the streambed.

"You'd prefer the alternative?"

"I'd prefer not feeling like I've been run over by a lorry," Lestrade said. "Here, drink up." Sherlock consented, if only to avoid further argument on the subject. He'd already declined lunch – such as it was – leaving the DI to eat an insufficient half of a vile-looking protein bar. "Not the best night I've ever had."

"Being drugged and abandoned in the wilderness is not a particularly restful series of events," Sherlock commented dryly.

"You're telling me," Lestrade replied, grimacing slightly as he pushed himself back to standing, tucking the refilled bottled into a coat pocket. "I'm too old for this – though I can't imagine when I wouldn't have been. We had shelter last night, Sherlock. I doubt that'll happen again."

"We've passed several suitable rock outcrops with deep enough recesses to protect us from the worst of the cold," Sherlock sighed. He'd noted that without even trying.

The DI gave a mirthless laugh.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Suitable," Lestrade echoed. "Amazing how fast we shift our definitions."

"If your estimates are correct, we have at best one more night outside, at worst two."

"If I'm right," Lestrade agreed.

"It's been known to happen."

"Ah, if only I had witnesses to that. The great Sherlock Holmes, admitting someone else is right."

"Wilderness survival is _not_ my forte," Sherlock said coolly.

"Never said it was mine, either. Camping gives you some idea, though."

"I wouldn't know."

"What, you've never actually been camping?" Lestrade asked as they moved away from the stream, putting enough distance between them and the water that the ground was firmer. The hills rose like sloping cages, containing them in a way the city never could. Beyond each peak lay the mocking, false promise of civilization, of people who were as unaware of their presence as they were of any others.

"No. And after this, I never intend to."

"Can't really say I blame you, but I doubt I could explain that to the kids and– _fuck!_"

Sherlock had swooped into a crouch almost before he'd registered Lestrade going down, mind automatically flicking through the details: small animal hole, mostly hidden by the wind-shifted grasses and weeds, the DI clutching his left ankle (and cursing loud enough that if there _were_ someone nearby, they'd certainly be found now), no sound of a snap or crack registering in his memory – cause for extremely tentative optimism.

Ignoring the shouted protest, Sherlock unlaced Lestrade's shoe, easing it and the sock from the injured foot. Ankle already beginning to swell, but when he pressed his thumbs into it carefully, there was no indication of a break.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Lestrade swore.

"We've got to get back to the stream," Sherlock said, slinging the DI's left arm over his shoulder, taking most of the weight as he hauled Lestrade to one unsteady foot. "Come on, slowly." Negotiating the uneven terrain with another man's weight left him breathless in the short time it took to get back; Sherlock ignored the discomfort, settling Lestrade close enough to the bank to dip his foot into the icy water.

"No more than a minute at a time," he warned. Bad enough they would be slowed by the sprain; Lestrade hardly needed to contract hypothermia as well.

"Bloody hell that's cold," the DI muttered, leaning back, face pale.

"It'll help with the swelling," Sherlock said shortly. "And the temperature will numb most of the pain." Lestrade nodded, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes, gloved hands balling into fists to displace discomfort.

Sherlock's great coat was shucked, his suit jacket joining it; the tear of fabric made Lestrade open his eyes again.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Silk has a high tensile strength. We can use it to bind your ankle, and I can live without my sleeves." Without waiting for further comment, he tore the fabric into long strips, using teeth and fingers, and began to knot the ends together. Far from ideal – but there was nothing about this situation that was.

"Take your foot out," he ordered. They sat for some time, Lestrade alternating the immersion until Sherlock was satisfied they'd overcome the worst of it. The sudden pang of desire to have John here was difficult to ignore, especially now. His actions weren't uneducated, but field trauma was John's area of expertise.

With Lestrade's ankle bound and his sock replaced, Sherlock helped him back up the slope a ways, trying to find some shelter from the wind.

"Stay here," he ordered. "I'm going to find somewhere more suitable."

Long, slow strides brought him to the crest of the peak, the height contradicting the sinking feeling in his stomach. There was little interruption to the landscape. The distant copse of trees for which he'd been hoping failed to materialize, but there was at least a decent looking outcrop close to the path they'd been on, and not much further.

With the DI on one leg, it took longer to reach than Sherlock had been anticipating, and by the time they arrived, both of them were short on breath. Lestrade slumped to the ground, shifting himself to sit with his back against one of the larger slabs, while Sherlock crouched, evaluating their position.

It would do overnight. There was a small overhang, just deep enough they'd be mostly protected if they curled up. The stream remained in the near distance, a short walk that he'd be going on his own whenever they needed water – and very carefully. They couldn't afford one injury, let alone a second.

"You need to eat," Lestrade said, fishing the half eaten bar from his pocket.

"Hardly," Sherlock murmured.

"Bollocks, Sherlock," the DI snapped. "I don't care what bloody lies you tell yourself about not needing food, this is not the middle of London where you're always within twenty feet of a chippy. Take it."

"That's not food," Sherlock pointed out, raising his eyebrows.

"It's the best we've got. Eat it."

He managed a few bites before it became utterly unpalatable, and brooked no argument about not finishing it. Lestrade's injury would slow them down; they needed to marshal whatever resources they had.

Such as they were.

"I'm going to see about fuel for a fire."

"What, grass?"

"There are some shrubs nearby, and perhaps thistle."

"Won't be much of a fire – at least not for long."

"No," Sherlock murmured in agreement. "It won't."

But it got him up and moving, which helped shake the constricted, imprisoned feeling impinging on his mind. The solitude helped counteract the worn feeling caused by the incessant wind. He was not without distraction – more of his attention than he'd prefer had to be focused on the terrain – but the lack of conversation was a blessing.

His scarf became a sling and, for a moment, he was glad John wasn't here to see this. The fleeting sensation left a sudden ache in its wake; Sherlock set his jaw and ignored it. Speculation was useless, and there was an actual case – with an actual victim – that required his attention.

_Who were you really, Sanjana Bhasin, and what was it that you did?_

_Something_ about her must have been out of the ordinary. Appearances were deceiving. Sherlock knew that all too well – a lesson that had been repeated far too often. On the surface, a successful solicitor, graduate of Cambridge, well versed in corporate law. Thirty-two, lived with the fiancé (of course the most obvious suspect, but being overseas at the time ruled him out comfortably). On her own time, worked as an advocate for a victim's group.

Found dead in her locked flat by her sister. Cause of death not apparent until the autopsy was preformed. Toxicology positive for drugs – _not_ recreational ones. Deliberate injection. Needle mark between the first and second digits on the left foot, easily overlooked, unless one was looking for it.

Not bound when she was discovered, but bruises on her wrists and ankles suggested she had been ante-mortem. Suspect pool reduced from her office to the center at which she volunteered. A short list of women associated with men who may have felt wronged. Narrowed down ever further to two, including the one they'd been chasing. Locksmith.

Should have been simple. Easy.

Then they'd awoken here.

A locksmith with the resources to do _this_ was unlikely. A connection was missing. The crime scene – Bhasin's flat – spread out before him in perfect detail as his hands worked methodically, violinist's fingers bent to the unfamiliar task of ripping and pulling at resistant vegetation.

The wind brushed a wrist exposed as he worked, jolting Sherlock away from the memory into another one – John's fingertips skimming up his forearm, lips and breath against his ear.

_No_, he told himself firmly, refocusing on the present.

The case mattered. The case was why they were here. Memories of brief, intimate moments were irrelevant, but once triggered, Sherlock found the sensation unwilling to dissipate from his skin.

He'd never had this much difficulty focussing before.

He'd also never been stranded in the Welsh wilderness before.

With a sigh that was lost to the wind, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, walking slowly through the memory of Bhasin's flat as his feet took him carefully across the alpine meadows. Minimalist and simple, but her taste, not a decorator's. Large windows to let in the light – although the day she'd died, they'd been splattered with raindrops, contrasting the bright sun under which he found himself now.

Clean surfaces – she had been neat and had hired someone to help keep the flat in order. Furniture relatively new, matching or complementary, but with touches of sentiment. An old throw cushion, its now-faded colours reminiscent of brighter and more vivid hues. A fleece blanket draped almost carelessly over a chair arm. A set of tourist coasters from Paris – a gift from the fiancé, before he'd been the fiancé.

More personal touches in the bedroom, a refuge that was rarely shown to the world. On display as officers and forensic techs tromped through it. An odd distinction Sherlock had never understood when his life – his work and John – had bled into all the nooks and crevices of the flat, marking no sharp boundaries because there were none.

Walk-in closet, divided in half, both sides filled with stylish, professional clothing, drawers containing more casual (but still expensive) items. Not overstuffed, but no unoccupied spaces on the racks or the shelves that held empty boxes or pieces of clothing carefully wrapped and stored. No suggestion that boxes had been moved or were missing; the dust had spoken here, but it couldn't tell them anything.

Her eyes had been closed when her body had been found. Odd, that. The drugs would have put her to sleep before killing her. The consideration – compassion – warred with the suggested violence on her wrists and ankles.

Which meant it may have been deliberate, but the search of the flat turned up nothing in the way of bondage that would leave that deep of marks. The fiancé had been appalled by the bruises – not a reaction used to cover embarrassment. Said she'd never bruised easily, either, which made the revelation more complicated. And troubling.

_What did you do?_ Sherlock asked the memory of her still form. On the morgue slab, she'd been statuesque, darker skin paled, like a worn photograph or carved marble. _What did you get too close to? What did _we_ get too close to?_

Useless to question the memory of a corpse. He'd taken from her all the information he could have, could use it now to glean more.

Without new facts – and no access to them – it might mean nothing. The data he needed were in London, and he was not.

His scarf was full – although not nearly full enough. They could start a fire, and be lucky if they got ten minutes from it. Nothing to be done about it. Lestrade would say it was better than nothing.

It was not better than London.

The DI gave a wry smile at the sight of Sherlock wearing the scarf like a pack across his chest, but a sharp look deferred any comments. Without a word, the detective crouched down, unstrapped the too-small bundle, and set to work.

—

"That didn't last long."

Sherlock gave a non-committal, wordless reply. The fire had lasted long enough to warm hands and feet, and moving to gather more grass – this time to line the floor of their modest shelter – kept the sensation from dissipating. Lestrade contributed what he could, spreading the grass out on the uneven, barren ground until they had a decent padding.

The DI shifted into a more comfortable position, wincing as he rested his ankle carefully on his shoe, and checked his watch with a sigh. Sherlock didn't have to ask to know they had approximately ninety minutes until sunset – the sun was already beginning its westward trek toward the horizon.

"You know, I was supposed to meet with Molly today. Right now, as a matter of fact."

"She's not on the case," Sherlock murmured.

"Not everything's about the case."

Everything _had_ to be about the case. The work was important. Kept him focussed when his concentration threatened to become divided. It was the reason they were here; logically there was nothing at the moment that was more important.

"A date, actually," Lestrade comment. "First in awhile."

"Mm," Sherlock replied, tilting his head back against one of the rocks, hoping his closed eyes would be enough of an indicator that he had no interest in the conversation.

"Hadn't really spoken to her since you got back."

Apparently, the hint was not enough. With a repressed sigh, Sherlock raised his head, eyes narrowing in cold assessment..

"You're angry at her for not divulging a secret that wasn't hers to share – not to mention one that had been devised to save your life. Stupid reason to hold a grudge, Lestrade."

"Yeah, well not everyone's as laid back about lying as John is."

A retort was swallowed with some effort; if Lestrade thought "laid back" applied to John's reaction, he was severely misinformed. The details of their private conversations were hardly the DI's business, but another, less familiar, flare of indignation burned brightly, taking the place of the real flames that had long since died.

"Stupid," he repeated, spitting the word into the space between them. "You had the luxury of time and you've squandered it over some misconceived injury she didn't inflict on you. She saved your _life_, Lestrade. Not much of a repayment."

"Yours too," the DI pointed out dryly.

"Yes, and mine. _I_ haven't forgotten."

Lestrade stared at him for too long a moment to be comfortable, then gave his head a sharp shake, a sigh gusting from his lips.

"I wanted to tell her that. That I know what it cost her and why she did it – but things don't always work out, do they?" A small, wry smile crossed his lips, vanishing almost before it was formed. "You're right," the DI sighed, leaning his head back against the rock, "it was stupid to waste time."


	5. Chapter 5

"John?"

"Yes, I'm here." Harsh breathing cut off, as if the connection had gone dead. Fingers fumbled for a wall, vision obscured by the too-bright light of fluorescent bulbs that somehow never hummed.

"Where are you?" A hissed question, desperate need for information. The wall flat beneath his palm, too smooth to hold texture, light fading to resolve itself into endless blankness, a featureless corridor, smooth metal doors stoically shut.

"Get me out, Sherlock. You have to get me out. Now, Sherlock. _Please._"

"All right, I'll find you." A lie, a necessary lie – for John, for himself. Heart rate elevated, useless adrenaline. Tightening in his trachea, cold sweat drawing goose bumps. _Fear._ Difficult to breathe deeply, to smother the reaction.

"Sherlock, _please._ Please."

"Keep talking. Tell me what you see." He could see nothing but white on all sides, sterile, faceless. Lost. Trapped. Each door as resistant as the last, not budging, no response to his fist.

"It's here. It's in here with me."

"John, keep talking."

"You have to find me, Sherlock. You have to get me out. I can see him. He's here, Sherlock. Moriarty's here."

* * *

Blood pounding in his ears. Muscles taut, ready to retaliate. The shock of paralysis nearly suffocating him until it broke and began to dissipate. Slowly – unbearably slowly – the racket in his ears faded as his heart rate dropped, letting the sound of the wind back in. A brush of cold air against his exposed left cheek and temple contradicting the rest of the warmth. A cocoon of heat under his coat, two bodies curled up under the shelter of the rock overhang, cold from the ground offset – but not eliminated – by the grass padding. His scarf a warm woollen scratch against his right cheek, the sensation of another body both familiar and uncomfortably unwanted.

A slow, deep breath. Another. The nightmare hadn't woken Lestrade, so there had been no violent movements, no pleading murmurs. Sherlock could just feel warm, even breath against his back, undisturbed by that which had shattered his sleep.

_Just a dream_, he told himself, frustration flaring at frivolousness of it all. There was no hound. There was no more Moriarty.

And no John.

_Idiot!_ he chided himself. Speculation. Useless emotional reaction. The last time he'd seen John, the doctor had been alive and well. Until new data presented itself, no other conclusion could be reached.

He was not willing to acknowledge new data that contradicted the old.

Not in this case. Not with John.

Lestrade's foolishness with Molly stung, a distorted reflection of his own reaction. John had thrown the idea of safety in his face, but Sherlock had fallen victim to it nonetheless; after nine months of waiting to go home, the new routine had been so welcome he'd scarcely thought to question it.

Moran was long dead, after all. Left to his own devices, Moriarty had likewise sealed his fate. Mary Morstan wasn't interested in anything more than she'd already taken.

He'd become complacent in so many ways, without having realized it. _Stupid_. So fallibly human. He'd given John the truth Mrs. Hudson had told him to – _and _the one Mary had said he wouldn't – and had assumed they would be enough. Mycroft's watchful electronic eyes would do the rest.

He'd never been more disconnected than now. During the nine months John had thought him dead – when the world had – and he'd moved through cities and countries like a ghost, he'd still had that link. Knowledge of where John was. His safety assured by Sherlock's faked suicide and Mycroft's surveillance.

The snipers Moriarty had hired may still be out there, but Sherlock doubted they had the means to do this – no more so than the locksmith murder suspect. His own death had ensured John's life, as well as Lestrade's. The latter still very much alive. Sherlock refused to consider that any distinction applied to John.

It was unlikely that Mary Morstan would have allowed the hired killers to carry out their missions, even if they'd been so inclined. It was an odd sensation, and he was certain he could never rely on her involvement. Not fully. But she'd disdained the chaos Jim had been causing, and had set him up to rid herself of it.

If she'd wanted them dead, they would, very simply, be dead. In that small and perverse respect, she was something of an ally.

Sherlock closed his eyes again; the darkness barely shifted, buried as he was beneath his coat under the rock overhang. Sleep seemed like a distant prospect, coloured by the possibility of more nightmares. A dull ache had settled into his muscles, the result of a second night on the hard ground following being drugged and the unfamiliarity of hiking across rugged terrain. He was uncomfortably reminded of the nights he'd spent sheltered in the foul doorways of narrow alleys, more unconscious than asleep, until Lestrade or one of Mycroft's minions would track him down.

It was the memory of his bed that became hardest to dispel, however. The night before, it had been confused sensations caused by the drugs, mingling reality with fantasy. Now it was a clear, conscious memory. Recollection of what he'd had – for so brief a time – warring with the uneven, unyielding ground beneath him.

Shifting slightly didn't help; there was no comfortable position to be found, and the movement accentuated the scratch of stubble against his scarf. The sensation made him yearn for a razor, for the way he could convince John to shave him – a paradoxically relaxing feeling, having someone else hold a blade – even a protected one – to his throat.

The sudden physical ache left him breathless, mind reeling for a moment before he got it under control. He would take a lifetime of sleeping on the hard ground if do so with John.

_This is pointless_, he told himself, a faint snarl curling his lip. Staying here was _not_ an option. Returning to London – with John – was the only one. The circumstances that had led him to be here had been beyond his control; those leading to his return were not.

Resolved, he snuggled down beneath his coat, burying himself against the cold air, and turned his attention toward sleep.

_All hearts are broken_.

The memory of his brother's voice, so abrupt it was nearly tangible, made his eyes snap open again, breath catching as he pressed his lips together. The tense, suspended moment faded, leaving Sherlock with a deep-seated resentment settling into his stomach.

The sentiment so disdained by Mycroft had worked its way into his words nonetheless – but he was wrong. The heart was a muscular organ. Neither rigid nor brittle. It could not be broken. Sherlock's own was healthy, a slowing, steady beat he could feel down to his fingers if he focussed.

_Shut up, Mycroft_, he thought, closing his eyes again. His lips twitched with a slight, wry smile; here, at least, his brother had no choice but to comply.

He would sleep now, he decided, and they'd begin their trek again the next day. Lestrade's injury would slow them down, but slowing was not stopping, and each step would bring him, inexorably, back toward London.

And John.

* * *

What optimism came in the middle of the night – and was largely born of telling Mycroft to shut it – vanished when morning came, consciousness creeping back in and towing pain behind it.

A groan slipped past his lips before he was aware enough to stop it. Even Lestrade shifting behind him was somehow painful. Reluctantly, and with necessary caution, he sat up, examining the limited view that extended only to the edge of where their pitiful fire had burned the day before.

"Fuck," Lestrade sighed.

"We weren't going anywhere for several hours," Sherlock replied, stretching his legs gingerly, repressing winces in response to pangs and flares in much-abused thigh muscles. "You need to be off your feet longer."

"It's not like we'd get very far in this mess anyway," Lestrade commented.

"I've got a map," Sherlock said, tapping his forehead when the DI gave him a tired, puzzled look. "I can find north regardless of how much fog there is."

"We've got that, at least," Lestrade sighed.

"Our list of resources grows ever longer," Sherlock replied wryly.

"Not once the food runs out."

Sherlock ignored the comment, as well as the unspoken observation that the slower their pace, the longer they'd go without food once the last of the unspeakable protein bars was gone.

He eased himself to his feet, using their sheltering rocks for balancing. Hissing and wincing, Lestrade stood as well, favouring his left leg.

"You need to stay sitting," Sherlock snapped.

"I need to use the facilities," the DI replied. "Such as they are."

"Don't go far."

"Don't worry. I don't think I can." He vanished into the fog, and Sherlock headed in the opposite direction, taking the water bottle down to the stream to refill. The cold water was bracing – almost painful – as he splashed it against his face, feeling the rough scrape of stubble against his palms. For good measure – and something to do – he washed his hands as well, wiping damp skin against his trouser legs.

Less than two days and he was already a disaster. Shirt sleeves gone, scruffy facial hair itching, and he could smell himself – an unpleasant odour of stale sweat.

_A bath_, he thought. It would be the first thing he did once he got home. A steaming hot bath, with John, water so hot it would be almost unbearable.

Then he would take John to bed, and stay there for hours.

_I wish you were here._

The thought slipped past his internal sensors, startling him with its ferocity and clarity. Sherlock fumbled, nearly dropping the water bottle, cursing at himself as he managed to keep a hold. Being without it would be almost a death sentence, and he had no desire to explain to Lestrade that a moment of emotional weakness had led to its loss.

_Nine months_, he reminded himself. Nine months he'd survived wishing he had John's companionship and assistance. It had been necessary, and he'd endured it. He could endure a few days.

There would be no reason to face more than that.

Sherlock drank a full half-litre, refilled the bottle again before covering cold hands with warm gloves, and headed back to their temporary home. Lestrade had returned and was stretching as best he could while seated. Feeling ridiculous when he shucked down to his sleeveless shirt-sleeves, Sherlock did the same, working out kinks and twinges, ignoring the knowledge that if John were here, it would be nimble surgeon's fingers digging into his muscles.

Lestrade took the water with a murmured "thank you", and they split the remains of the first meal bar, Sherlock chewing and swallowing mechanically, deliberately distancing his mind to avoid the appalling taste.

* * *

They set off after noon, Sherlock in the lead this time, keeping their pace slow – much slower than he would like. There was no helping it. Lestrade shouldn't have been on his feet as it was, and limping across this kind of terrain was difficult at best.

The fog had lightened but hadn't cleared – and wasn't giving any indication that it would. They walked closer to the stream, keeping it in view until it began to curve away from the direction in which they were headed. Lestrade made them stop and drink a litre each, filling the bottle to the brim. Sherlock stowed it in his coat pocket; the DI didn't need the extra weight, although they both bore it in the form of the knowledge that they didn't know when they'd find another source of water.

Seeing a stream in the distance wasn't possible in the fog. They might hope for rain, except that would mean the possibility of catching a chill or spending the night sodden and miserable.

Neither of them spoke as they left the creek behind, crossing the grassy plain slowly. At one point, Lestrade had suggested shouting out at regular intervals, in case there was someone else in the fog, but the blanketing cloud seemed to absorb sound, stealing it the way the vast space had the night they'd woken up here instead of in London.

"Can we stop a bit?" the DI asked, sinking down gratefully onto a small stone partly covered in moss and mostly obscured by grass. Sherlock stayed standing, limited not only by the lack of anywhere to sit that wasn't damp ground, but by the worry that getting back to his feet would be difficult, given the stiffness and aches plaguing his joints.

He waited while the DI rested the bottle of cool water against his ankle, staring off into the truncated distance. It was alarming to realize he missed the views that had been so hateful yesterday; at least there had been a consistent change in scenery, and they'd been able to see where they were going. The monotony was slowly wearing; each uneven step made his legs ache for pavement and asphalt.

"Here," Lestrade said, passing back the water bottle. Sherlock took two small sips before stowing it back in his pocket and helping the DI to his feet.

Their slow pace let him work, the fog-shrouded landscape fading back into Bhasin's flat. The bedroom, with the body tucked into bed, positioned as if she were sleeping. Sherlock, crouched in front of her, gloved hands (nitrile now, not leather) examining her hands. Fresh French manicure on her nails. Not chipped or worn. Either she hadn't fought back, or this had been done post-mortem.

The locksmith. Steady hands. Used to working with small, fine things.

Her hair was clean and dry. Sherlock passed a strand through index and middle fingers, smelled it. Shampoo – something scented of green tea and lime. Skin still smelled faintly of soap. Dressed in pyjamas – silk but not risqué.

As if she'd been pampered at a spa, then sent to bed.

Why?

"Someone cared for her," he murmured.

"Or wanted us to think so."

He raised his eyes, meeting John's across the bed, frown tugging at his lips. He paused the scene, eliminating the officers who surrounded them until only the two of them and the victim remained. Switched the setting to the morgue, where Bhasin was laid out on a gurney, white sheet folded under her arms, turned up just enough at the end for her ankles to be visible.

That hadn't been John – not the real John. The John who lived in his head, constructed out of the man he knew, augmented as projection of himself. Someone to talk to when the real John wasn't available. Essential to his work during the nine months he'd been away.

Even more so now.

"What do you mean?"

"Someone cleaned her," John replied.

"No DNA," Sherlock agreed.

"She'd had sex, but not immediately before her death." Nothing new there – it had been in the coroner's report.

"The fiancé had been gone less than two days." The information was hardly shocking. Never had been, but somehow even less now. Sherlock considered mentioning that to Mycroft – somewhere public, where his brother's reaction would be a joy to behold.

"She was bruised, but nothing else."

"Aside from being murdered," Sherlock replied dryly. John's lips quirked; the detective didn't bother with resisting the impulse to reach across the gurney, rest a hand on his partner's shoulder, his thumb tracing the line of his trapezius.

The real John would have stopped, given him a look, asked what was wrong. In his mind, John accepted it without comment.

"Maybe someone wanted it to look like she was killed by someone who cared for her – or who thought they cared for her."

"It leads us down the wrong path," Sherlock commented.

"Right," John agreed.

"The bruises," Sherlock mused as John lifted one of her arms gently, turning it over to expose the marked skin on the underside of her wrists. "She was bound, but didn't struggle. No blood, no lacerations."

"Could've been done after she was unconscious."

"Not enough time between that and when she died," Sherlock replied. Reluctantly, he released his light hold on John, folding the sheet all the way down, eyes skimming over the rest of her body. "No other marks – not from this." Old scars from childhood mishaps and a minor surgery to remove a mole. Nothing noteworthy in her medical records.

"She was having an affair?" John suggested with a shrug. "Someone who liked to tie her up."

"No indication in her phone records or emails."

Another shrug, blue eyes meeting his levelly.

"She might have been careful."

"This isn't careful," Sherlock said. "The fiancé would have noticed. Someone did this to her, before she was drugged."

"Maybe it wasn't the only time she was drugged," his partner replied.

He felt himself pause internally, his feet moving him forward one careful step at a time. Realization was a cold burn down to his fingertips, leaving him staring at the mental image of John.

"Of course," Sherlock murmured. "The drugs. We have to be tested, find out what's in our system."

"You can't do that out here," John pointed out. "By the time you get home, it'll be long gone. And you have to turn around, right now."

The morgue vanished, leaving him in the Welsh fog, and Sherlock did stop this time, abruptly, spinning to see a haggard-looking Lestrade giving him a startled look. Dark eyes unusually bright against pale skin, but dull for him nonetheless. Circles drawing faint shadows beneath his eyes, left hand resting on his hip as if that would displace pain.

"We're done," Sherlock said shortly.

"What?"

"For today. We're done walking."

"We've barely–"

"We've done over four hours and any more will have you completely laid up tomorrow." He slung an arm over his shoulders and helped Lestrade to the lee of a hill. The DI settled onto the damp grass without complaint, relief flickering over his pallid features. Shucking his coat made him repress a shudder against the cold, but he refused any protest.

"I'm going to look ahead. We can't stay here. I won't be long. Don't go anywhere."

"Can't imagine anywhere I'd rather be," Lestrade replied dryly.

* * *

He was back in less than twenty minutes, moving as quickly as he dared over the foggy, uneven terrain, hissing Lestrade's name as he crouched down next to the dozing DI. Lestrade blinked, emerging groggily from sleep, a pinched, confused look crossing his face.

"What is it?" he murmured, shifting to sit carefully as Sherlock shouldered his coat.

"Abandoned badger watch, and a stream. Come on," he slung Lestrade's arm over his shoulders again, helping the DI to his good foot, "it's not far."


	6. Chapter 6

A dilapidated shack in reality, but his mind saw it as a veritable palace. Wind- and rain-worn wood, cheap white paint remaining only as flecks here and there. The roof largely intact, only a few small holes, which they could easily avoid. The two stairs leading to the door were rotted and crumbled, but the door itself still shut, putting a firm barrier between themselves and the worst of the elements.

The elation and relief Sherlock felt were what he'd anticipated upon his initial return to Baker Street – and which had been denied to him by Mrs. Hudson's death and the distance between himself and John.

The tiny hut was completely empty, without any luxuries beyond the walls and roof, but he'd never been so relieved to be sheltered.

And there was an old dirt road, nothing more than two overgrown tracks, that they could follow the next day. It had led from somewhere populated to here, once. It would lead them back.

Sherlock helped Lestrade to the floor, propped against the wall. The DI gave him a slight smile and a nod of thanks, breathing hard. The water bottle was pressed into his hands, and Lestrade drained it dry. Sherlock fetched another, drinking his own fill first.

Lestrade had dozed off again, bad leg extended in front of him, the other drawn toward his chest, where crossed arms helped retained some warmth. The pallor of his skin had been replaced by a warm flush, one that should have begun to dissipate as the effects of their exertion wore off. Sherlock crossed the aged floor quietly, crouching down as he pulled off a glove. The backs of his fingers against a cheek and forehead registered an unexpected warmth, tinged by sweat.

The relief began to evaporate; Sherlock held onto it deliberately – a night completely exposed to the vagaries of the weather would have exacerbated the mild fever.

He roused the DI, who met his gaze with glassy, tired eyes, and had him sip more water before getting him lying down properly. With Lestrade's jacket off, they would have something to protect their cores from the cold floor, and Sherlock's coat was commandeered as a blanket again. He sprinkled some water on Lestrade's face, ignoring the scowls and faint murmurs of protest.

"Sleep," Sherlock ordered, refusing to be bothered that his order was obeyed without question.

He waited until Lestrade was deeply asleep before leaving to prowl the exterior boundaries of their tiny shelter, looking for anything that might have been abandoned and would now prove useful. The minor activity – walking and observing, nothing more – wore him down far too quickly, leaving him crouched on the road, watching the curve of the tracks where they disappeared into the fog.

It couldn't be far now, he told himself. Logically the road had to be close enough to somewhere populated that people would want to come up here for the baffling purpose of watching badgers.

The next day. They would find help the next day, and he'd be home this time tomorrow, with John, ready to delete this entire experience.

With a sigh, Sherlock pushed himself to unsteady feet and returned inside, curling under his coat next to the feverish warmth given off by Lestrade.

* * *

Falling asleep had been easy; staying there was a losing battle with Lestrade shifting and murmuring, caught in fevered dreams that spread their restlessness to Sherlock. He drifted, half asleep, slipping deeper only to be hauled back up by a twitch or a wordless protest. Never quite able to claw his way back to full consciousness. Aware of the failure, incapable of overcoming it.

A lifetime of training should have given him the ability to be alert on short notice. Five weeks with John had taught Sherlock to rouse himself and deal with nightmares, but Lestrade's went untended, the slurred sounds of his children's names and his quiet pleas sliding past the detective.

Some rational part whispered that it wouldn't matter, and waking Lestrade would do more harm than good. He'd have to go back to sleep anyway. Better to let him stay there. Sherlock was about to surrender, let himself be dragged back under, when the presence of someone else in the room, burning like a brand on his senses, made him snap his eyes open.

Impossible to see in the depth of their darkness – but there it was. The outline of a person near the door, crouched, back to the wall. Expectant, but not poised to strike. Familiar in its lines and angles. In its smell. In the sound it made, shifting slightly.

"John," Sherlock managed, voice thick with sleep. John didn't move, but was somehow more visible now. Outside what Sherlock's line of sight should have been, too illuminated for the pitch black inside the abandoned shack. Clean shaven expression serious, bare hands not reddened or chapped by the wind, familiar clothing – jeans, jumper, jacket – as fresh as if he'd just donned them. "You found us."

"You left." An observation, spoken without inflection or emotion.

"No," Sherlock managed. He wanted to shake his head but movement was restricted, something holding him back. Tying him down.

"You always leave, Sherlock. It's all you ever do."

"We were abducted, John. We were on the case–"

"You left me to get slapped with an ASBO, waiting on a custody sergeant," John said, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken, tone still deceptively still, calm. "You left me in the lab at Baskerville. You left me for nine months. Now you've left again."

"John–" He struggled against invisible restraints, shouting silently for his mind to obey, to let him free. Fingers twitched uselessly, bound by shackles he could neither see nor break.

"You always leave. You always lie."

"It wasn't by choice!" Sherlock hissed. "Surely you–"

"There's always a choice, Sherlock." Words spoken the night Mrs. Hudson had died, his return to Baker Street. Not as he'd intended during those long months away. John had spoken with passion then. Cold detachment now.

"Not for us," he countered, struggling, breathing coming in gasps as an undernourished body drew on reserves it didn't have. "This was because of the case–"

"It always is," John replied. "I told you, Sherlock. I have a life. This isn't it anymore."

"No, John, that wasn't the choice you made–"

"It's always been my decision, Sherlock. You're the genius. You knew. You've always known. No more, Sherlock. Not again. Not ever."

"We're coming home, John," he managed. "We didn't intend to leave, neither of us–" Some of the constriction faded and he began to sit up, relief at his body finally responding quashed by the sudden weight on his chest. John was straddling him, smelling of soap and a hint of aftershave as he leaned down, bringing them so close together they were sharing breath.

"There is no home, Sherlock. You can go back to Baker Street if you want, but there is no home. It never will be again, will it? Not on your own."

"You don't have to leave," Sherlock protested.

"I can't go back," John replied.

"Don't be absurd, of course you can, be rational, John, where else would you go–"

"Nowhere," John admitted.

"Precisely, precisely," Sherlock gasped, struggling to move again. If he could just gain some leverage, shift his unresponsive arms–

"I can't go anywhere," John said.

"Why not?" A hiss – frustration, confusion, suppressed fear. He needed his body to listen, he needed _John_ to listen–

"I'm dead, Sherlock."

"No–"

"You've known that since you got here," John replied with a shrug. "Mrs. Hudson didn't make it. Neither did I. Lestrade might – if you're lucky. Could go either way, I suppose. Go home, Sherlock. Or don't. Leave again. Makes no difference to me. Like I said, this isn't my life. Not anymore."

In a flash of cold air he was gone, leaving Sherlock gasping at the sudden loss of weight – the ache was more than physical, the shout of protest emerging as a low, stifled groan. Footsteps receded across the floor; the door to their tiny shelter opened, silhouetting John briefly against the clear night sky before it was shut again, and he was gone.

Sherlock tried to move, to sit up, but there was a new weight on his chest – no, his shoulder, and not a weight, a movement, weak grip, inconsistent, shuddering muscles against the hard floor.

"Sh'lock." Murmured word, slurred. Feverish. "Wake up. C'mon." Eyes snapped open – black on black on black and only the pungent odours of two bodies – himself and Lestrade, both sorely in need of a wash – no remnant of anyone else in the room, no fading reverberations from the closing door.

"'Sa dream," Lestrade muttered. "You were dreaming."

He cleared his throat silently, swallowing past the useless fear.

"Yes." Managing to keep his voice level, berating himself internally. He wasn't ill, wasn't the one caught up in delirium born of fever. Stupid that Lestrade should be the one to wake him, not the other way around.

Sherlock sat up, patting the floor until he found the water bottle, shaking fingers fumbling the cap off. He wished for a cloth – or some clean bit of clothing that could pass as one – as he wet his hands and pressed them against the DI's flushed skin. Lestrade took the water when offered, sipping carefully.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock said. "You need it."

"You too," Lestrade murmured.

"Of course," Sherlock assured him, doubting the DI had ever heard the reply as breathing began to deepen and even out again.

He lay in the darkness, and kept his eyes resolutely open.

* * *

"You should go without me."

"Absolutely not."

"You didn't sleep a wink last night after I woke you!" Brown eyes, clear of the fever now, flashed. Angry – and offended, as if the lack of sleep was some personal slight. "I'll only slow us down. You can come back."

"And if you fall ill again?" Sherlock snapped. "If the road is longer than anticipated? If it becomes any colder, or there's a storm? What then, Lestrade?"

"I'd live," the DI said stubbornly.

"_Lestrade might – if you're lucky. Could go either way, I suppose."_ The memory of words spoken in John's voice made him repress a shudder from coursing down his spine.

A dream, brought on by exhaustion, hunger, and dehydration. Nothing more. John _was_ out there. They would find him, or he would find his way back. Or he was waiting in London, not knowing that each slow step was bringing them home.

And they were slow – so much slower now, even with the road curving away and downhill. The fog had cleared overnight, but the visibility had become a curse; each step brought a dashed hope that they would see someone, that they'd catch the distant hum of a motor or a shout trying to gain their attention.

They'd split half the last protein bar for breakfast, eating in small bites interspersed with sips of water. It helped, but not much, and his body – so accustomed to going without – now demanded more than the little it got. The thought of food made him both nauseous and desperate, so Sherlock locked it away, with so many other things. The dream from the night before.

It would be the first to go. As soon as he saw John again.

The road made it possible to be Lestrade's crutch over a longer distance, but the extra weight Sherlock carried and the lack of balance the DI suffered slowed their pace to little better than a crawl. The sun edged upwards in the sky, its brightness belying the brittle temperature. The fog had left behind a warning chill in the air; Sherlock eyed the horizons suspiciously – apprehensively. Any precipitation would be snow, and without shelter, they might not survive overnight.

_No more nights_, he told himself firmly. They'd keep going until the light ran out, and would then continue if need be. Stopping wasn't an option. Not anymore.

But he made them do so, briefly, at regular intervals. To sip water and rest. Catch breath and try to cajole strength into exhausted limbs. At lunch, Lestrade ate one of the two remaining quarters of the bar under Sherlock's watchful eye. The detective refused any for himself; aside from it being vile, the DI needed the calories more than he did.

It was easy enough, he told himself, to ignore the hunger. Harder to ignore the growing worry – _paranoia –_ that they'd been here longer than initially suspected. His watch gave the date expected, but had it been set to by someone else? How long had Bhasin been drugged before she'd died?

How long had they been drugged before they'd awoken?

Attempts to breach the barrier in his mind were thwarted by the gap in his memories, the time that had been stolen. Rationalization gave way to coaxing, then simply to effort – over and over and over again – all which yielded nothing. A small part of his mind protested that he didn't have the strength to keep this up, that whatever meagre resources he had left could be focussed only on each step. Sherlock complied, dimly aware that he was nowhere near as troubled by being defeated by his own mind as he ought to be.

There was no conversation now; each breath was reserved for moving forward, one step at a time. Sherlock held onto the silence, turning it inward, pushing it into the corners of his mind to stopper memories and frantic fantasies. He had no data, and it was useless – foolish – to speculate without all of the facts. He never had before. He certainly wouldn't start now.

Never mind that he'd already begun. Strands of memory slipping in when they weren't wanted. His mind betraying him, playing on unnecessary fears when he had no choice to let his guard down.

He kept that guard up now, refusing to give way.

The pattern of one more even step followed by an uneven one became everything. Keeping the pace steady to match breathing. Focussed on the ground ahead, scanning for irregularities (and fresh tire tracks or footprints). Judging what small obstacles needed to be circumvented, which they could overcome without side-stepping. Evaluating the breeze as it brushed exposed skin, attuned to changes that would signal a drop in temperature.

"There's–" Lestrade's voice caught, cleared with a dry cough. "Stop. There's a person."

His body halted of its own accord, mind racing to catch up – _stupid, slow!_ he rebuked himself. Sherlock followed Lestrade' gaze across the broad, grassy valley, gaze narrowing in on the distant figure headed determinedly toward them, pausing once to wave its arms. He managed to keep their balance when Lestrade raised one arm to return the gesture, and closed his eyes, giving his head a small shake.

Hallucination. Not entirely. It was there, but he was seeing what he wanted to see in the posture and movement– stupid to give into emotion like that– better to hope for a hiker or farmer who knew where they were and how to get help, but the disappointment was like a cold knife, making him breathe deeply against the sharp, sudden sensation–

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade said. "It's John."


	7. Chapter 7

He left Lestrade settled on the ground, the care it took to do so properly warring with the desperate need to _move_. Each breath he expended was one John took crossing the space that separated them; Sherlock had to force suddenly responsive legs not to run, to keep in mind the injury that had already slowed them down – enough so that they'd intersected John's path – that could so easily happen again.

His coat was a hindrance, but he couldn't waste the time it would take to remove it. The terrain dipped into a narrow, slopping valley, but would rise on the other side of the grassy depression before he met John. Exhaustion made his muscles protest again, thistle and burrs clung and tore at his cuffs. Sherlock ignored them all, patterning harsh breathing, bolstered by the distant sight of John, still there – still _real_ – moving just as quickly.

Stumbling, catching himself hard on his left hand. Sherlock skidded to a stop, ragged breathing suspended until John shook off the shock, regaining his balance on uneven ground, pushing himself back to his feet to keep going.

A mind that felt sluggish – _normal_ – judged trajectories, angles, velocities – not for bullets fired or safe landings from rootops, but for where they'd meet. The other side of the slope, where the encroaching grass rose to give way to barren scree, fragments of rock chopped into an uneven, uncertain terrain.

Logically it would make sense to wait here, not to have to navigate the hill again, to let John come to him, but logic was subsumed by impatience – by _emotion_, yes, fine, he would admit that here, where there was no Mycroft to lecture him about the futility of caring, when there were no eyes on them but Lestrade's distant gaze (and no disappointment _there_ – the DI had always been angling for someone to take care of Sherlock, as if he needed to be _supervised_ and _managed_ and)– _Careful!_ his mind chimed, a warning as the soles of his shoes – so unsuited for anything but pavements and streets – slid on slick, fog- and dew-dampened grass and he went down, grunting, scrambling up again.

_Keep going_. John had paused briefly, a professional evaluation from still such a distance; Sherlock ignored it, lengthening his strides as the valley bottom evened out, a flat plain without character but incessant grass. John was moving more cautiously, already ankle-deep in the scree, and Sherlock did run now, a cautious jog, until he reached the rocky landscape, chest heaving, lungs demanding oxygen – energy – to pass onto his body.

He ignored the weakness and climbed, muscles burning. John was skidding – a controlled slide, knees bent, arms outstretched and down, fingers splayed for balance. Closing the remaining distance more quickly, and Sherlock pushed himself harder, taking only the time he needed with each step to find firm purchase, and suddenly John was _there_, in front of him, the deep growl startling Sherlock as hands (skin raw, cracked, dried blood around his fingernails) closed over his sleeves, then his lapels, pulling him forward and down.

"Come. Here. _Now_."

Lips were crushed, bruisingly, against John's. The doctor smelled terrible and tasted worse – something, or mix of things, not worth identifying – and Sherlock fisted a hand into the hair at the base of John's skull, the other gripping the good shoulder. Kept him where he was, disliking the scratch of stubble against his own. A whimper slipped out, unintentional, when teeth dug into Sherlock's bottom lip and he tasted blood against his tongue.

"No," he snarled when John pulled away to suck in air; the doctor cut off any more protest by kissing him again, hands on Sherlock's face now, mouth demanding. Sherlock gave John what he wanted and took more, resisting the urge to push him down onto the rocky slope because Lestrade _was_ watching – even if from a great distance – and he had no desire to turn an academic knowledge into a more practical one.

"Jesus Christ," John managed after they'd pulled apart, lips lingering for a long moment, now still so close they were sharing breath, John's eyes closed, forehead pressed against Sherlock's. "You're alive."

"Yes." An obvious statement but it was a relief to answer it in the affirmative, to feel his heart beating – slowing to a more steady rate – to feel John's through the barrier of a grubby jacket and a leather glove.

"How–"

"Later."

John managed a miniscule nod, exhalation ghosting over Sherlock's lips.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Okay. You've got Greg."

Sherlock's lips quirked – no solid reason for the relief-addled joy – other than John's presence, of course – because they were still lost, still without food or any means of communicating with the rest of the world.

"He all right?"

"Sprained ankle," Sherlock replied. "Two days ago. But we've found a road."

"Let's go," John said.

—

John seemed intent on physical contact, but holding hands made walking on rough ground a precarious prospect. Arms extended between them, they clasped the other's elbow, the grip supplying connection and balance.

There had been nothing like this when he'd returned to Baker Street. There should have been. Sherlock wanted to pin John against him, ensnare him with long arms, never let a breath of space between them. It was ridiculously emotional and utterly impractical, but he didn't bother trying to fight the sensation.

Concentrating on making it back was using enough resources – both mental and physical – as it was.

"What've you been eating?" John's words were punctuated by heavy breathing. He'd lost approximately four pounds; it would be more obvious when he shaved (Sherlock's fingers tingled with the desire to touch smooth skin). Exertion was costing him – costing both of them. More than they had to pay at the moment.

"Lestrade had breakfast bars, and protein bars. And a bottle of water."

"That's it?" John asked, sparing a glance from the path they were cutting, their slow climb back uphill toward the old road. "Jesus."

"You were better off?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"I trained in this area. Years ago. I caught some rabbits. Used some flints to spark a fire."

It explained the blood around his fingernails. Not his own. Remnants of the meals he'd caught and cooked – Sherlock's stomach recoiled both in protest and plea, too empty to growl.

"What did you use for fuel?"

"Branches," John replied, giving him a puzzled look.

"We had no trees," Sherlock explained.

"I stayed put a day, figured someone might see the fire – on an off chance. When that didn't work, I took what I could carry and set off north."

"We didn't wait," Sherlock replied.

John only nodded, exhaling slowly as they crested the hill onto the road. Lestrade was waiting, ankle propped carefully on his now-removed shoe. John's grip tightened briefly on Sherlock's elbow before releasing and crouching in front of the DI. The makeshift bandage was removed, the injury subjected to a surgeon's prodding and questions. Features were pinched into a frown, blue eyes narrowed and evaluating.

"It'll be all right, once we get out of here," John said. "You did a good job binding it. How much pain?" The last was to Lestrade, who shook his head.

"Bollocks," John said. "How much, Greg? Scale of one to ten."

"Four, maybe five."

"Six at least," Sherlock snapped.

"How long've you been on it today?"

"I haven't," Lestrade replied. John glanced back up at Sherlock, expression dark, but refrained from comment. There was no sense in berating the necessary, and he would have made the same choice regardless of John's displeasure. He could repay himself when they were home, when food was a given, not a luxury, a distant promise.

"Where does the road come from?" John asked, nodding along to the explanation of the abandoned badger watch. He sat back on his heels, blue eyes scanning the horizon, ignoring the direction from which they'd just come. Observational genius had been reversed; Sherlock cursed himself for never having cultivated the skill of understanding the wilderness. What John was taking away was more than he ever could – a lifetime of training and experience in combat situations, where the isolated hills were just as much a potential venue for conflict as were the cities.

But this wasn't Sherlock's battlefield.

"Greg, I need you to stay here, keep your ankle up. We're going to the top of the ridge to get a better view. We won't be long. Come on, Sherlock."

—

The hated view opened up even more as they gained the ridge, unfurling below them as swaths of greens, golds, and muted browns. The wind was stronger as they became more exposed, still a breeze but unfettered by the hillside, sweeping past them as if they were barely there.

Refusing to come hadn't been an option, even as muscles in his legs weakened, making him clamp down on the wobbly feeling. Like so much else, it would have to wait.

It was hard doing so, with John right there, uncertain absence suddenly broken by a solid presence, but Sherlock drew a steadying breath, refocusing, turning his attention to the view below, to any signs of human presence, so when John's fists closed around his lapels – again – dragging him down, he nearly collapsed. For a moment, he fought – more for balance than from resistance, but John wrestled him to the ground, dispensing with coat buttons while refusing to relinquish his mouth, hands and tongue claiming dominance.

His hands were directed to John's belt; surgeon's fingers were fumbling with his, the faint clank of metal shockingly loud to his ears, in this place where there should only have been the sound of the wind. Sherlock grunted, the sound caught in John's mouth, when cold fingers snaked into his pants, rubbing him hard. The sensation was sharp and too much but he couldn't stop himself from responding, hips tipping upward, a startled cry slipping from his lips when John shoved his own trousers down, grasping both of them and stroking roughly.

It didn't last long, and the sudden intensity made his orgasm more painful than pleasurable, but the relief that followed in its wake relaxed muscles that had been taut for days. He could have slept here, on this wind-swept hill, with John – but the option wasn't available.

"Soon," John murmured, lips brushing Sherlock's. The detective grimaced, aware that he had nothing with which to clean himself, but John had a grubby handkerchief – Sherlock repressed a shudder and longed for a disinfectant – that the doctor pitched away when they were finished.

He was helped to his feet – half his balance leant to John, he suspected – and they followed the ridge slowly toward its termination point, the landscape below them uninterrupted by anything but the road that continued into the distance, disappearing around the base of a hill.

"There," John said suddenly, and Sherlock followed the pointing finger, eyes skittering over the small, low building, as if they couldn't recognize it and therefore refused to see it. "Ranger station."

"Unlikely to be anyone there at this time of year," Sherlock pointed out.

"Probably not," John agreed. "But there'll be some provisions. And a radio."

—

"You should go on ahead, John."

Sherlock gave Lestrade a disgusted look, aware of John's puzzlement at his reaction but not bothering to explain.

"We stay together," John said. "I don't think it will take more than an hour, but if we split up, I won't know if you need help. Let me be the crutch a while."

The switch didn't last long; the height difference between John and Lestrade made it more difficult for the doctor to assist. Sherlock shouldered the DI again, knots and weary aches settling in where they'd formed in the hours he'd been half-carrying Lestrade. He kept his eyes on the road, relinquishing the task of scanning the landscape to John, and refocused as he had before. One step at a time.

It was easier now – so much easier. A weight had been lifted even if Lestrade's hadn't, and they were slightly less alone. His assessment two days ago (what felt like weeks or months now) that John would have known what to do had been correct. A likely reason they'd been separated. John was adept at this – had trained in this very environment. Understood its nuances, how to negotiate with it to get what he needed. Sherlock and Lestrade were both bred in and for the city.

John took over the task of making them stop for water – although it seemed ridiculous to waste it, not knowing what the ranger's station had. Whiskey, perhaps. Best not, Sherlock supposed, because he'd be inclined to drink an entire bottle and make the dehydration so much worse. Another addition to the list of things to do when they got home – and _home_ seemed like a more solid prospect now, a possibility that was almost tangible, and memory overlay reality for a moment with the smells of pine and baking and Mrs. Hudson's perfume. Sherlock savoured it for the space of a breath – an old memory, one he'd berated himself for having two days ago, but one that no longer seemed brittle, dangerous.

The end of the ridge where it slopped down as a hill was tantalizingly close; the bend in the road would take them in view of the ranger station. No longer an imagined image upon which to focus, but a real one. Physical. Attainable. He almost growled when John held up a hand for them to stop, but his ears had registered it, too – a distant rumble that wasn't coming from the cloudless sky, and the view opened up, the road curving down and away from the station, better used than where they were, but not by much.

And a bright white Land Rover, too far to make out anything about the driver or potential passengers, speeding up slightly, and heading right for them.

—

"What the hell?"

Shifting up a gear came naturally; so did fumbling for the radio, one hand kept on the steering wheel to negotiate the old road.

"This is car four to base, come in."

"This is base. What've you got, Bridget?"

"Rescue. Near the west station. There are people up here."

"What, hikers?"

"I think– no. Christ, Tom. You know those missing London cops? I think it's them."


	8. Chapter 8

The Land Rover jerked to a stop and the driver (female, single, late twenties, recreational tennis player, not originally from this area) clambered out, her dark skin and reflective vest contrasting with the neutral hues of the sweeping landscape.

"Lestrade, Watson, and Holmes, right?" she asked (faint Welsh accent, but southern and urban – Cardiff). Sherlock's lip curled at being listed last, pride smarting unnecessarily, illogically.

"Yeah," John answered, as she ducked under Lestrade's other shoulder, helping him to the vehicle.

"You've been all over the news," she said. "The Met's gone mad with it." The flurry of questions Sherlock had been half-anticipating – what had happened, how'd they found themselves here – went unvoiced. Professionalism supplanted curiosity: the information she gathered revolved around how long they'd been there, what weather they'd faced, what they'd eaten and drank, and how much, when had Lestrade sustained his injury, how much walking he'd done on it.

The stories were jumbled as the Rover started back down the road, passing the ranger station and leaving it to fade into the distance. John's experiences were interspersed with Sherlock's and Lestrade's, but Bridget seemed adept at understanding, picking apart the strands of narratives and making sense of them. Sherlock was vaguely aware it must be a skill acquired from working with recovered hikers, and her questions brought them back to point when the conversation threatened to derail into unnecessary detail or questions of their own that could wait.

"There are granola bars in the pack near your feet, Doctor Watson, and a thermos of tea. Take two bars, divide them up, and share that out. Don't eat more than that – and eat slowly. Share the tea, too."

The tea tasted like manna from heaven – hot and sweet. Not at all the way he preferred it, but anything was welcome after three days of icy water and little else. John kept a careful eye on them as they ate; Sherlock scarcely needed it, all too aware of what could happen if he ate too much too quickly. Once triggered, though, his stomach begged for more; he tried to content it will small sips of tea.

The trip was uncomfortable, with Lestrade's bad leg propped on one of Sherlock's, with John in the front seat, so close but effectively out of reach, with each ache and twinge growing stronger as the Rover prowled over the bumpy dirt road. Even with the driver's window open, Sherlock could smell the three of them, the pungent stench compounded by the enclosed space.

He closed his eyes, turning his attention back to the case; with London drawing ever closer – with John _here_ – Bhasin's murder needed resolution. Their abduction needed to be linked to something Bhasin had done or known, some tidbit of overlooked information, some hint from the way she'd died, or been positioned, or in the locksmith's history. The tea and the food helped his concentration, but the futility of the mental search made him want to snarl, swallowing the sound at the last moment to avoid being questioned.

_Nothing_. He had nothing – nothing new. Three days out of London – out of touch with the case and all the contacts he'd re-established and the new ones he'd developed – left him scrounging uselessly for scraps of data that weren't there.

He opened his eyes, momentarily startled to see that the uninhabited hills had given way to a base station accompanied by a handful of Land Rovers, a man standing near the door waving as they approached, and a helicopter descending slowly, wobbling for a level landing as it hovered just above the ground, long grasses bending in its wake.

The young man from the station was jogging toward them when Bridget killed the engine, grimacing against the wind from the helicopter's spinning blades.

"You're going with them!" he called over the sound of the rotors.

"What?" Bridget snapped. "Bollocks! Why?"

"Dunno! Orders from the Met!"

"Bloody hell," she muttered, casting a glance backward, gaze settling on John. "You didn't tell me you three would be trouble. At least give me a chance to get my things," she added, glancing back at her colleague.

"No time," the base attendant said, shaking his head. "The chopper's doing pick up and immediate leave."

She turned in her seat, fixing a dark-eyed gaze on Lestrade.

"What does the Met want with me? I can't tell them more about finding you than you could."

"It won't be the Met," Sherlock said, drawing her attention. "It will be the British government. You'll be perfectly safe, I assure you," he added, seeing the flash of alarm cross her features. "Although probably utterly patronized."

"Sherlock," John sighed as Bridget stared at him, eyes flickering over his features as if trying to determine whether he were serious. Sherlock met her gaze levelly until she sighed, giving her head a sharp shake.

"Brilliant," she muttered. "All right, let's get this the hell over with."

* * *

John and Lestrade had succumbed to the sleep Sherlock had resisted, but the doctor blinked himself awake, raising his head from where it rested on the detective's shoulder, when the helicopter began its descent. Habit trained into him from his years in the army, Sherlock suspected. Lestrade was roused, but any medical questions John may have had were quelled by the pervasive sound of the blades.

There were two ambulances awaiting them, lights flashing, teams of paramedics at the ready with gurneys and kits. Mycroft would be ensconced in the black car idling near the emergency vehicles – he'd see no sense in waiting at the edge of the landing pad with the medics and the rest of the small welcoming committee. Molly Hooper was hanging back slightly, uncertainty visible on her face even from their altitude, but Harry Watson was standing as close as safety concerns would allow, the newly minted DI Amanda Hassard next to her.

The pilot ordered them to wait until the blades wound down, giving the paramedics a clear path to fetch Lestrade, who dispensed with their insistence that he be off his feet to use Hassard as a brace, returning her fierce hug. Harry was clutching John, berating him through tearful laughter; Sherlock took unaccustomed pity on Molly, squeezing a shoulder and leaning down to press a brief kiss on her cheek, aware of the way her nose wrinkled at the smell.

And the way her eyes were darting past him to where Lestrade and Hassard were talking in earnest – and arguing by the looks of it: he with the paramedics, she that Lestrade should be listening to them.

"I shouldn't worry about that," Sherlock commented, arching an eyebrow as Molly's attention was drawn back to him, "in the slightest. Don't bother with me; go talk to him."

She lingered a moment, undecided, then gave a nod that was firmer than the expression in her eyes before ducking away. Mycroft had slipped from the car and was closing the short distance between them; the dry comment faded from Sherlock's lips – gone was the arrogance and certainty he associated with his brother's posture, that sense of being looked down upon by a man his height, as if he were still a pesky, petulant child, unable to comprehend the complexity of intelligent adulthood.

Angry, frustrated, thwarted, even unsure – he'd seen his brother wear all of those expressions, but this one… The nature of his work meant Mycroft often went without sleep, but Sherlock had never seen him _look_ as if rest were lacking. Faint circles smudged beneath grey eyes – nowhere near as deep and dark as his own, but then again, Mycroft hadn't spent three days in the Welsh wilderness.

He _had_ spent them frantic, exhausting every avenue, calling in every favour, chasing down ever lead, no matter how insignificant its potential. The realization grounded Sherlock; for a moment – however fleeting – they were on equal footing.

With apparent disregard for the others present, Mycroft actually hugged him.

Stunned, Sherlock returned the brief embrace, wondering what John was going to say about _this_.

"Please don't ever do that again," his brother said.

"_Caring is not an advantage."_ So very Mycroft – yet he had disregarded his own philosophy. A quick sideways glance made Sherlock re-evaluate any validity he ascribed to his brother's statement. Certainly it had it's disadvantages, but they were difficult to see now, with Molly and Lestrade talking quietly – the DI finally lying propped on a gurney – and John submitting to questioning by the paramedics with Harry close beside him and Hassard next to her, talking with Bridget. The doctor raised his eyes, meeting Sherlock's gaze and gave him a genuine – if small and tired – smile.

"Believe me," Sherlock said with some feeling, returning his gaze to his brother. "I don't ever intend to."

* * *

The caring had extended to a hospital room for him and John, with Lestrade just down the hall. After interminable poking and prodding and questions and repeating their stories until Mycroft and Hassard intervened, putting a temporary halt to the interviews, Sherlock found himself standing under a scalding stream of water, steam curling in the air of the tiny bathroom. They'd both shaved and scrubbed until skin was almost raw – and they were probably costing the private hospital its entire reserves of hot water by refusing to get out. John leaned against Sherlock's chest, arms encircling a bare waist; Sherlock kept his draped over the doctor's shoulders, chin pressed against John's temple, as if they were dancing without moving or music.

"The nurses'll be annoyed," John murmured, warm breath almost cool against hot skin. IVs had been removed to let them shower; Sherlock was aware they were both need of the hydration, and more aware that – in this moment – he didn't care at all.

They were back in London. Safe. Cared for by professionals whose job it was to ensure they recovered.

A short – or rather, very long – shower was not going to compromise that.

He hummed in vague agreement, too tired and contented to do anything else. A pleasant surprise to discover that this – not the fatigue, but standing here with John – was enough to shut off the exhausted mind which had threatened to wear itself into a rut, turning over the problem of Bhasin's murder again and again. He still had no new data, but it scarcely seemed to matter.

The work was still important. Right now, it was work enough to stay standing as abused leg muscles began to protest, familiar aches and pains threatening to settle in once more.

Sherlock ran John's sodden hair through his fingers, letting them trail down to trace a now-smooth jaw line. As though reading his mind, John moved slightly – withdrawn hand leaving behind a cool patch on Sherlock's skin – and shut the water off. The steam was allowed to dissipate before they dried off, movements slow and sluggish, and shuffled into pyjamas. Sherlock revelled in the feel of clean silk against his skin, the familiar light weight of his favourite dressing gown. It was euphoric enough that he tolerated the return of the nurse who refitted their IV lines.

"No heart monitors," John said. She gave him a knowing smile and bid them good night, the door shutting out the lights and sounds of the corridor.

There were two beds but the second went untouched other than to have the blankets removed. John covered them carefully, a cocoon of comfortable warmth that had nothing to do with Sherlock's coat – Mycroft had promised him a new one, and he'd happily watch his current one burn – and which smelled clean and crisp.

John fitted them together like puzzle pieces, until there was no unnecessary space between them.

"No heart monitors?" Sherlock murmured. Lips brushed his clavicle, warm but worn, hinting of exposure to wind and weather. A thumb turned circles on his hip, but a sigh gusted from John's lips, ghosting over Sherlock's skin.

"I want…" John murmured, voice thick, drowsing. Another sigh, this one of tired acquiescence. "I want to sleep."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed. John's body softened against his, and Sherlock let himself relax, relinquishing his remaining hold on consciousness and slipping into slumber.


	9. Chapter 9

The relief at returning to Baker Street was palpable. Any remaining tension dissipated as they slipped into the bath, John resting against Sherlock's chest. Mycroft had established police check points at either end of the street; any vehicles lingering too long outside the house were dispatched, and any news vans were summarily refused entry. The press of reporters eager to speak to them had been denied. They'd lose interest soon; Sherlock knew his brother well enough to know that some new distraction was currently in the offing.

Tedious to be back in the public eye. Gratifying to be back home with John, drowsing gently in the hot water, vaguely aware of the rhythmic motion of John's fingers stroking the back of his hand. Sherlock hummed, felt the shift in muscles in John's cheek as he smiled. For the time being, he was content not to move, letting the heat seep into his muscles, superimposing this reality over the one of the past few days, where there had been no real warmth, no real security.

When the water cooled enough to lose its appeal, Sherlock roused them. The pyjamas John tried to don were plucked from his hands and left to puddle on the floor; Sherlock led John to the bedroom, lowering him onto the clean sheets and downy duvet.

He took his time, any urgent need satisfied by their encounter in Wales and doused by the long, hot bath. At some point, John understood the unspoken question, answering it with a faint hum and a hand tightening briefly in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock started slow, coating his fingers carefully, filling the room with the scent of cinnamon. A few murmured words directed Sherlock to what he was seeking, and he raised his head to watch the euphoric expression on John's face as he crooked the tips of his fingers and stroked gently. He focussed there until John's breathing came apart, until his lower lip was caught between white teeth against a plea.

He was even more careful when he pushed in; John's short fingernails digging into Sherlock's back nearly undid him, but he reined himself in, wanting to draw it out as much as possible, wanting it to be over for John first so he could watch as the doctor broke down completely beneath him, face flushed and dampened hair clinging to his temples, whimpering with each thrust and stroke, shuddering, fingertips small, sharp points of pressure.

Sherlock let himself go when John blinked his eyes open, darkened and languid. Surgeon's hands roamed his back, meaningless words murmured against his ear.

He perhaps should have found it appalling how easily he slipped back toward sleep, but there was no sense protesting. John would rightly cite medical precedent for rest, and Sherlock had no genuine inclination to fight it – not now, when resisting was no longer necessary, when the company and location were what he'd been yearning for. John murmured something ridiculously emotional; Sherlock returned it, cheek pressed against John's chest, the steady sound of a heartbeat lulling him to sleep.

* * *

The one visitor they permitted came under the guise official police business, bearing the Chinese takeaway that John had ordered and fresh news about Lestrade. Mycroft had been sending updates via text message, but Sherlock was far more disposed to trust Hassard's assessment – not only was she a close friend of Lestrade's, but whatever inclinations toward political machinations she might have, they didn't involve controlling Sherlock.

John dished the two of them small plates; the faintly hollow feeling of hunger was somewhat offset by the rich, heavy smell, and neither of them ate much.

"I've got something," Hassard said, pulling a file from the bag that had also hidden their food. "Sorry to spring this one you," her eyes directed the apology at John, "but I thought you'd want to know. We found the locksmith last night, but someone got to him before we did."

A series of photographs of the crime scene, a body left unceremoniously in an alley – right in front of a bin no less. Single bullet wound to the forehead. The position of the limbs indicated he'd quite literally been dumped; no careful arranging here. Eyes still open, expression faintly shocked.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Sherlock said to Hassard. She raised her eyes, meeting his across the coffee table.

"This wasn't revenge," she said. "One bullet, no other marks, the body wasn't on display for anyone to see. It wasn't incidental, because he was moved – no blood on the scene, no splatter, no brain matter. He wasn't even dumped in the bin. He was just killed and discarded. I think someone used him to murder Bhasin and to get to you, then just got rid of him when they didn't need him anymore."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, picking up a photograph, considering it carefully, "I think so, too."

* * *

Hassard left them copies of the photographs and reports; Sherlock spread a map of the city on the coffee table, marking the alley where the body had been found, along with the pertinent locations in Bhasin's investigation: her flat, the organization for which she volunteered, the alley in which they'd attacked and abducted.

There weren't enough data points to form a pattern, but it scarcely mattered. If the locksmith had been a decoy, then it was probable that Bhasin had been, too. An extraordinarily unfortunate one – but whoever had enough resources to remove three grown men, unnoticed, to northern Wales, was an expert in games. Bhasin had been _a_ target, but unlikely _the_ target.

Sherlock didn't delude himself that he had been, either. If so, he would be dead.

_But who? _Sherlock asked himself, _And why?_

He studied the map, tips of his index fingers resting against his lips, awareness of John moving around the flat growing until consideration for the locksmith's murder had faded, and he was no longer seeing the information spread out in front of him. When John came into the living room to rescue Sherlock's cup of tea – long since gone cold – the detective folded the work away carefully.

"I need to update my map," he said.

"What, of the city?" John asked, expression registering surprise – tinged with reluctance at the idea of leaving the flat.

Sherlock stood, reclaiming the mug and setting in on the coffee table, freeing John's fingers to be interlaced with his own.

"No, John."

* * *

Eyes closed, he rested his forehead against John's, each exhalation a soft brush against his lips. Sherlock let his fingers work, mapping and remapping, gathering data about the curve and shape of muscles, the lines and ridges of bone. The change in texture from healthy skin to scars – not just the bullet scars, but other, older ones, marks left by life from before they'd known each other – and some since. The soft places where John's muscles jumped, ticklish. The small spots that made him relax again, shifting minutely – unconsciously – for more contact.

He wondered what John was taking away from him, what surgeon's fingers deemed worth committing to memory, what he'd be able to recall at will. Sherlock made sure he could summon all of it at a moment's notice, imprinting each detail as finely as he did the city. Like London, this map would change with time, and the prospect of updating it on a regular basis made him smile, ignoring John's question as to what was funny, touching lips to lips in reply instead.

* * *

The knock on the door came later than she'd been expecting, and the woman who sagged onto the sofa wore a look of distaste, dark eyes meeting hers across the short space that separated them.

"_Mon Dieu_," Brigitte said. "You might have warned me."

"I'm afraid there's no warning for Mycroft Holmes," Mary replied. "Besides, if I had, he would have seen it and been suspicious."

Brigitte made a faintly dismissive noise, foregoing comment when the door was opened again following a deferential knock. The smell of freshly ground and brewed coffee was a welcome one; Mary saw her visitor perk up at the promise, and felt the relief mirrored. She'd grown accustomed to the mad obsession with tea, but it had never become a preference. A murmured thanks from her was acknowledged by a short nod from the server, who left them to settle in the brief silence.

"Excellent work," Mary commented, sitting back in her chair, legs crossed. Brigitte's lips quirked into a smile – the comment could have gone without saying, but it _had_ been excellent, particularly with the added necessity of dealing with – and deceiving – Mycroft Holmes.

But Brigitte waved a hand lazily, relaxed against the white leather cushions and – as always – Mary admired the ability to transition so easily and completely from the practical, efficient movements necessitated by her profession to the languid, lounging grace. A natural talent she'd herself never been able to cultivate, let alone imitate.

"Do you know why yet?" Brigitte asked. "Or who?"

"No," Mary sighed. It was the source of some consternation for her; it should not have been this difficult to track down the person behind the murders and the abductions. Very few people ought to have had the resources to do so, and if she didn't control them outright, she should at least know their names.

Mycroft Holmes had been the first to be vetted, of course. Mary didn't doubt his love for his brother – nor his ability to manipulate events to suit his needs. Clearing him had been something of a relief; he _might_ have done this, under the right circumstances, but the possibility had sat ill with her. It would require some extraordinary events to put his newly-returned brother into that situation.

She had no illusions about how much real danger they'd been in. A bad fall – worse than the tumble Lestrade had suffered – a storm, getting turned around and heading in the wrong direction… So many possibilities for a terrible and definitive end.

Someone was playing a dangerous – and stupid – game, and it irked her. It smacked of Jim Moriarty, and she'd let him seal his own fate for a reason. Unpredictable people were a problem.

It was why she appreciated Brigitte so much, and why she was not at all surprised when her companion asked:

"Why not have done it yourself? Why not get them out of the way?"

"Because," Mary replied, setting her cup down on the marble coaster with a faint clink, "they are not _in_ my way." A shake her head forestalled the protest on Brigitte's lips. "You think they are – and _they_ might even think they are, but they are not in _my_ way, Brigitte. They stand in the way of others getting to me. As such, they are extremely valuable."

"Someone got to them," Brigitte pointed out.

"Yes," Mary agreed. "They did. And I will find out who."

* * *

"Do you think I might be permitted a cigarette?"

John looked up, lips quirking in the way they did when he was fondly amused and trying not to show it. Palms slid over one another; Sherlock kept his gaze on John's eyes, refusing to be distracted by the unconscious motion, remembering precisely how it felt to have those same hands moving over his own skin.

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, I think you might have earned it."

"I'll go out onto the stairs, of course."

"Give me a minute," John replied. "I'll come with you."

The kettle was put on, left to boil while John dislodged the cigarettes from their (not very original) hiding place inside the skull.

"Here," he said, handing Sherlock the ashtray stolen from the palace, smile answering Sherlock's knowing smirk. "I don't want you getting ash all over my staircase. Tea?"

"Something stronger?" Sherlock suggested. John grimaced, giving his head a quick shake.

"If you want, but I don't think I could stomach it yet."

"Nothing for me then," Sherlock replied.

"Suit yourself."

"I think I will."

John rolled his eyes, but the smile tempered the response, and something settled in Sherlock that he hadn't known was unsettled until that moment. John followed him down to the first landing, a faint curl of steam trailing from the RAMC mug. Sherlock sat lower down, able to rest his head against John's knee, lighting the cigarette with a practiced motion, inhaling until the spark caught. The acrid tang burned delightfully; he closed his eyes to better savour the sensation.

It was the first one he'd had since his hurried return to London five weeks ago. Certainly not the first one he'd wanted, but waiting made the experience better – and John's presence would make it easier to ignore future cravings.

Sherlock opened his eyes as he exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate thoughtfully. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed this. While he'd been away, it had been a means of dealing with the stress – and a way of offsetting the effects of the nightmares. Before that… a constant red flag for John, Mycroft and Lestrade. A warning to pay close attention, to search the flat for the more destructive habit.

Sherlock's lips curled as he inhaled and exhaled again. At least this time, he wouldn't have to worry about John upsetting his sock index.

A faint twitch tightened the corners of his eyes, memory nudging him. The instinct to dodge it was deliberately circumvented; as much as he disliked thinking about that particular day – and all the unnecessary emotional complications it involved – some tiny bit of detail was vying for his attention. He circled his own mind, distantly aware of John's fingers combing slowly through his hair, a stable connection he could hold while turning his focus inward into memory.

Mycroft had given him the cigarette then; it was always his brother's litmus test, as though it had never occurred to him that Sherlock might accept it simply to irritate him. It hadn't been the case then. An inadequate measure of comfort against the one human certainty.

There was death here, too – Sherlock could feel the emptiness of Mrs. Hudson's flat, her absence made more noticeable by their presence on the stairs. Had she been here, there would be good-natured chiding hiding the iron underneath; John might tolerate smoking in his stairwell, but she never would have.

Her death, so deep, so _final_, still sometimes caught him unawares, knocking him into breathless moments when he least expected it. But it wasn't this demanding his attention; here in Baker Street, he was always aware of it on some level, the more present grief fading to an acceptance that let them keep living, allowed them to stay.

Something about _that_ day, the cigarette he'd smoked in a hospital, accompanied by the grief of strangers – and he'd been mourning one, too, without knowing it. Caught in a lie, the way John had been, but designed to protect no one but herself.

A death, yes, but not the one they'd all assumed. A feint. A diversion.

Like the locksmith.

And Sanjana Bhasin.

Sherlock felt muscles relax in realization, but distantly, as though he were listening to a description of another's reaction. Memory unwound, propelling him back across his trek through Wales, reverse-ordered, until he collided with the night he'd arrived. Disoriented. Uncoordinated. Unfocused.

Three days trying to chase down the answers. Who had done this? Why? Nearly thirty-six hours of pushing for an answer he'd been giving himself _the entire time._ He'd thought himself weak each moment in which memory had snuck past his defences. Not weak, no. _Stupid_. A mind reeling from the effects of the drugs, from hunger and dehydration, from exhaustion, trying to get him to _think_. To _understand._

He had, even in the beginning. Lestrade, staggering to legs that were unjustly more coordinated than Sherlock's had been. How much had they each been given? _Not_ irrelevant.

Because he had a tolerance of sorts. His mind accustomed to repressing physical demands. A body with a long dormant but never forgotten habituation to drugs.

_Helicopter. Safe bet. No tire tracks. No airfield._

Not only deduction. Some hint from memory. He'd been given more, because he'd fought it better.

_It's perfectly safe. I've used it on loads of my friends._

Used it again – or something like it. More of it. Something stronger. It scarcely mattered.

Christmas music. The smells of pine, baking, Mrs. Hudson's perfume. _All hearts are broken._ Even the memory of John's fingertips skimming across the sensitive skin of his wrist – another memory overlain by one with John, because it had been the one that had made sense, because it was so much more immediate. But it had been the wrong one.

Not Moran, long dead in the desert. Not Moriarty, a lingering, fading after-image of madness. Not Mary Morstan, who disdained the chaos, who did not play games.

_"Who does that leave us with?"_

_"Someone new."_

_Stupid, stupid!_ he told himself. Had the prospect been appealing on some level, below the exhaustion and the uncertainty? A new game, a new opponent, but there was a flare of anger because _this_ game had severed him from the person who mattered most and–

Of course.

Distraction.

Bhasin's murder. The locksmith as their lead suspect. A trap that had ensnared him so neatly, had left him stranded in the Welsh wilderness.

Separated from John.

_His_ distraction. And it had worked – oh yes, it had worked. Every memory judged as frivolous clamped down upon, refused consideration, preventing him from getting at the truth he would have seen had John been with them.

But _why_? Surely there must have been other ways to delay them, thwart them?

_Mycroft. Of course. _Mycroft. His brother_ had_ been looking at the first suggestion of trouble – which meant his gaze had been diverted.

More distraction.

It hadn't been about him.

It had been about incapacitating him to incapacitate Mycroft.

She had her sights on something, but whatever it was, his brother didn't realize it was missing. Meant it wasn't missing – not something taken, but perhaps copied. Information, surely; some physical theft would hardly go unnoticed. Something that hadn't been acted upon, not yet.

_Beautiful. _So brilliantly executed that the admiration lasted longer than it should have before being swallowed by a sudden, bright rage, by the memory searching the vast darkness for someone who wasn't there, of convincing himself the figure in the distance wasn't John.

"Sherlock."

His name came to him as through across a great expanse, a fragile thread that connected his mind to his body, growing stronger as the sensation of a thumb smoothing across his brow reached him.

"Sherlock." John's expression shadowed as he bent over, serious, searching. The cigarette had burned down almost to his fingers, a crumbling trail of ash; Sherlock flicked it into the ashtray without looking, focussed on John's eyes. "Welcome back."

"I know who took us, John, and why." The doctor started, lips parting in shock.

"What– you mean you figured it out just now?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, straightening and turning to meet John's gaze squarely. "It will require some explanation – and you'll rather dislike it, I'm afraid."


End file.
